


The Prince and the Slave

by french_charlotte



Series: Luck of the Dane: The Adventures of Sihtric and Finan [1]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV), The Warrior Chronicles | The Saxon Stories - Bernard Cornwell
Genre: But now they're happy, Historical Slavery, Historical references galore, Light AU, M/M, M/M pining, Old Norse, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Uhtred, Sihtric is a teenager, Soft Porn, Takes place mid season 2 kinda?, mix of book and tv show
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-20
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 04:34:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 10
Words: 33,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24288988
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/french_charlotte/pseuds/french_charlotte
Summary: After the events of Dunholm and defeating Kjartan, Uhtred and his men focus on getting much needed rest in the new village of Coccham. And building a village of Pagans and Christians doesn't come without its growing pains, especially with Christmas and Jul almost upon them.Finan realizes he doesn't know how to build a house only to find help in the most unlikely person. As the house is built, so too does his relationship with the young Dane.
Relationships: Finan/Sihtric (The Last Kingdom)
Series: Luck of the Dane: The Adventures of Sihtric and Finan [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1796065
Comments: 63
Kudos: 183





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A few things that need to be mentioned... this work is a combination of the books, TV show, historical accuracies, and my own creative twist on things. First, Sihtric's age in the books is very young (Uhtred guesses him to be around fourteen when they first meet) but obviously this was changed in the TV show. To try to stay true to both, I compromised and set his age around 16-17 in this story that takes place early season 2, right after the events at Dunholm and Kjartan's death. This story is, technically, considered AU. Sihtric will not get married and some of his and Finan's backstory have been slightly tweaked.
> 
> There are many historical nods in the story, especially when it comes to Viking slavery and hierarchy system. Sihtric is still considered a slave and this is explored further in this story. There's also historical references to era-appropriate building procedures and materials, as well as some holiday traditions. 
> 
> In my research, I was not able to find a reliable Old Irish/Gaelic translator for the specific language used during the period. Other Gaelic has been used instead. For the Danes, Old Norse is the language that I was able to find the most reliable translations for. 
> 
> Warnings: Mentions of past rape/abuse, underage consensual sex.

Finan should’ve found more satisfaction in seeing the timber frame stand on its own legs. But the roof tresses were taking longer than expected to be put together, and with the leaves succumbing to autumn and turning rich red and orange, his need to finish his house was becoming dire. 

He refused to return to Wintanceaster. And pride stopped him from making a bed on the main floor of Uhtred’s longhouse, where Sihtric seemed content to slumber. No, the Irishman was gifted a generous slice of land in Coccham with a small meadow and steep bank leading down to a valley, and he stubbornly refused to let the land go to waste. 

It took him a day to announce his plans to construct a house. And then another day to realize he didn’t know how to build one. 

Coccham was a relatively new village but was seeing tremendous growth since its newly elevated Lord and Lady. Naturally, all building material sourced from Wintanceaster and neighboring towns were first devoted to Uhtred's homestead, putting his dream of a pagan longhouse into physical embodiment. In the time that it took Uhtred to build a sprawling home looking uncannily similar to the Dane halls Finan saw popping up in Ireland before his exile, he still hadn’t even broken ground yet on his own land. 

His pride had stopped him from approaching and asking for help in how to even start the feat. Growing up in a privileged household had robbed him of the chance to see the hardened craft of building, and far removed from Saxon ways, he didn’t know where to start. 

The unexpected help had come from, of all people, the Dane teenager. 

Pouring himself over faded plans he managed to quietly swipe from a builder that passed through Coccham in his travels, Finan hadn’t even noticed Sihtric approach until the boy looked curiously over his shoulder, getting a perfect view of the aged building prints. 

“The left side slopes. We’ll need to lift the roof so water doesn’t become a problem.” 

Finan frowned at the Dane’s assessment of the frame and shot a dark look at the shorter male. “Maybe ya should’ve noticed that before we hammered the copper in.” 

Sihtric grinned as he met the glance, mirthful enough to grate against Finan’s foul mood. “That was _your_ side. I didn’t think you needed that much handholding.” 

Either the murmured Gaelic curse - its meaning not lost on the Dane - or the overcast look in Finan’s eyes made the teen laugh jovially and clap the Irishman on his shoulder. “It is not a lost cause, Finan. We can easily fix it with the roof and your castle will be finished in time for a fire on the Winter Solstice.”

“Remind me how many homes ya built again.” 

“More than you.” Which was true. Finan couldn’t argue that point. But to think that he was placing his trust and the life of his homestead in a Dane who couldn’t even grow a full beard made his stomach lurch nervously. 

Running a calloused hand over his face as he watched Sihtric make his way back to the oak beams arranged purposefully in the grasses, the Irishman fought not to look upon the house mournfully, already grieving what wouldn’t be and what should’ve been. Miles away were his family’s lands, where prolific farms grew healthy bounties each harvest and the limestone castle he grew up in was honored pridefully. Those were the memories he would always have of his home whenever he thought of it fondly. Not when the Danes came. Not when his brother betrayed him out of fear. 

Turning abruptly, Finan quickly made his way into the heart of Coccham, carefully avoiding the chickens pecking vivaciously at the dirt where feed was messily spread. The communal stores for their supplies were monitored by their Lord, especially with the upcoming winter months looming ahead of them, but Finan was afforded a gracious board. Though all he needed in the moment was the mind-numbing effects of ale. 

“Progress seems to be coming along.” 

Finan grunted noncommitedly into his wooden cup at Uhtred’s light words, so distracted by his depressed thoughts that he didn’t notice the man’s approach. The ale was watery and weak compared to what he was used to in Ireland, where the mead was as thick and dark as mud. Looking over the rim of his drink, his mood sunk lower at the amusement in his Lord’s gaze. “The damned thing is uneven on the side.” He couldn’t remember if Sihtric said the left or right so he omitted that part out. With a sigh, he looked towards the direction of his estate and the young Dane inspecting the skinny skeleton that was supposed to be the embarkation of a house. “I’m starting to think the bastard doesn’t know what he’s doing.” 

“For not knowing what he’s doing, the frame is pretty convincing.” Uhtred filled his own cup of ale, his smile heavy but he relented in his banter at seeing the length of his second-in-command’s gloomy attitude. “I wouldn’t have allowed Sihtric to help you if I didn’t trust in his ability to make good on his word. And if the structure is still uneven after daubing it, he’ll help you build another one.” 

Finan glanced curiously over at Uhtred, something in the way he easily committed the boy unsettling him. “Do ya have any intention of pardoning him?” 

The Dane shrugged. Were they due for this conversation again already? “When the time is right.” But as he looked at his friend, seeing the defiance illuminate his dark gaze, he knew what memories soured the Irishman’s mind. They had both been on the bench, they both bore the same calluses on their hands from the constant torture of rowing. Sihtric was as difficult of a topic for both of them as he was unexpected to Finan when first introduced. In the wake of their own release from enslavement, the Irishman struggled to come to terms that the man he loyally followed kept a servant of his own. Though the teen wasn’t kept in the same demeaning slave manacles they were, his hands were bound through different, no less restricting means. 

Uhtred sighed at the refractory look and took a step closer, his voice dropping to a quiet, serious tone. “When I’m not afraid that he won’t end up in service to someone else. When I feel confident that he’s capable of knowing how to live as a freeman.” 

The ale was as tasteless as their conversation, and Finan wanted to be rid of both. And yet, there was an alarming amount of truth in his Lord’s words. Where they knew the luxury and opportunity of freedom, and how constricting life became when forced into an existence that defied your own desires, Sihtric didn’t. He was born into slavery and grew as the bindings did around his wrists. Everyone saw how eager the teen was to please after taking his oath to Uhtred, though he’d been slowly emerging into his own person as he was gingerly fed more and more freedoms. While the two of them raced freely back into their old lives once freed from slavery, savoring the familiar taste of independence, doing so with Sihtric would be as disastrous as the time he had wine for the first time. 

Finan couldn’t remember the young Dane acting drunk before the strong drink forced him to become violently sick in the stables. They still made fun of him for it. 

“I need this house finished before winter,” Finan abruptly exclaimed as he dropped the cup on the wooden counter and began his trek back towards his pathetic homestead settled on the hill. Ale and Uhtred hadn’t improved his mood, and complaining about his plight wouldn’t make the roof tresses build themselves any faster. 

“Maybe you’ll get it as a gift for your Christmas!” 

Finan gave a dramatic roll of his eyes as he heard Uhtred’s mocking laughter at his back. _A gift?_ He darkly thought, _it’d be more like a Christmas miracle._

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

“An island.”

“Nope.”

“Yes, it is! It’s an island, ya bloody bastard. Ya cannot change the rules just to win!”

Pressed against the slanted beams vaulted up to make the roof, Sihtric laughed loudly with a shake of his head. “I swear on Thor’s hammer it is not an island.”

Weaving the thick bunches of thatch and earth through the roofing framework had turned out to be much more draining of a task than expected. When Sihtric had excitedly told Finan the house was finally ready for a roof, he’d presented the last building stage in a deceivingly simplistic manner. The trees around them had long ago shed their leaves as they shivered in winter’s eve, and soon the ground would be near frozen. Luckily, they’d already dug the nine foot cellar, created a suspended ceiling with reinforced planks over it, built the walls with wattle and daub, and anchored the dwelling’s frame into the ground.

“Ya know that means little to me.”

The Dane’s laughter, so light and free, easily cascaded over the pitched roofing that separated them. “Then I swear on your holy book!”

“And that is worse, ya heathen!” Finan rolled his eyes as he yanked a poorly knit section of thatching around the oak supports. The thatching - a collection of dried hay, grasses, and moistened dirt - would serve well to insulate the house, he’d been told. Back in the Irish castle he was forced to abandon with his old life, the roof had been constructed in a myriad of stone shingles that felt much more ironclad and sure than mere grass.

Not to mention, like everything else in the building process, Finan had so far proven to be a horrible roofer.

Luckily for the house, though at the expense of his pride, the young Dane was impressively skilled when it came to building. Sihtric’s normally solemn and quiet demeanor had taken on a revitalized air as he worked, either proud of his own capabilities or finding sport in the otherwise painful activity. And where Finan dreaded each day he was forced to fight with the iron tools, his worry for how long it was taking morphing into impatience, the teen’s blithe attitude remained unblemished and bright.

Later, when the house would stand proudly over the sweeping meadow, the Irishman would come to regret his sharp tongue and anger irrationally directed at the easiest, most readily available target.

“Do you concede?”

Finan frowned deeply as the younger man waltzed around the house's frame, more annoyed at the Dane’s superb balance than the riddle game he was apparently failing at too.

“Where did you learn this?” The Irishman demanded in a tone harsher than intended as the teen wordlessly sewed the thatch into the segment Finan struggled with moments ago. Either Sihtric knew the dangers in pointing out his superior craftsmanship, or he was humbled enough to protect the older warrior’s pride, for he corrected the section without comment.

And that was another thing Finan would appreciate much later, months after the fact when the blinders caused by his own arrogance were cast aside.

The Dane eyed him out of the corner of his gaze as he tightened the roofing’s knot. “The riddle? I’m not sure. I think it was Tekil-”

“Forget about the bloody game!”

Finan regretted his caustic tone the second the wind caught and echoed it, the second the boy stiffened and his working hands abruptly stilled, the second he reduced the jovial Dane before him to a frightened slave. It lasted but a moment, long enough for both of them to stop breathing and forget where and who they were. The Irishman would swear he felt the salty sea spray on his face as the field of calluses on his fingers burned, and Sihtric turned rigidly to him with the downcast head of a servant awaiting punishment.

And years ago, before Finan’s once regal life and birthright were torn from him, he wouldn’t have thought twice about inspiring fear into the heart of a lowly slave. It was expected of him to maintain the ebb and flow of their society. Now, however, it made his stomach twist sickeningly.

Neither spoke for what felt like an eternity, when in reality it was only a few seconds, for Finan counted his heartbeats in the same manner that he did when rowing, when he needed to remind himself that he was still alive and not in Hell. But the rhythm sounded foreign to him, and he had to wonder if the nervous hammering was Sihtric’s.

Yet it was in the heart’s steady cadence that he found his voice first: “Sihtric, _éccosmail_ , I’m sorry… I didn’t mean that,” Finan’s voice dropped to a half whisper, weighed down with regret and sincerity. His eyes desperately searched the Dane’s, fighting with the smudged charcoal framing them in hopes to find forgiveness. “Ya don’t deserve that. I just…” He ran a shaky hand over the nap of his neck and looked at the half-finished roof. “I’m eager to get this finished. And Lord Almighty, you’ve been a Godsend in basically building this on your own. I don’t know what I would’ve done if ya hadn’t helped.”

Sihtric refused his stare for a painful few seconds, making Finan’s torment fester worse.

“You’d be homeless.”

The Irishman could almost feel the relief steal his breath away in those simple words. Yet it wasn’t the words that filled Finan with an odd tingle of something - Nerves? Happiness? - but rather the sly little smirk teasing across the Dane’s lips.

“Aye, I’d be in a worse spot, that’s for sure,” Finan sighed as he leaned a muscled arm against the roof, turning more fully towards the young man. He hated having scared away the amusement from the Dane’s face, and chased after some phantom of it, secretly longing to find Sihtric smiling once again. “Ya know, you’ve put in enough effort and work here to have a legitimate claim to the house. Ya should stay here.”

Though Finan tried to sound casual about the offer, the teen blinked before furrowing his brows in the way that he did when an English word confused him. “Stay?”

“Stay,” Finan repeated more solidly. “We can… build a pallet for ya down in the cellar if ya want. I was going to keep salted fish and meat down there but I can just use Coccham’s stores.” Sihtric’s hesitating and sudden fidgeting of his weight made the Irishman fidget himself in mind and body. He was a man of wealth, born of noble blood and, in a different pastime, heir to a flourishing kingdom. And yet the regal titles he armed himself with like a shield that served him so well in the past suddenly shattered in the face of denial from a mere Dane.

Maybe it was easier staying annoyed at the boy for both of their sakes. What he wanted could never be. And he didn’t even know if what he wanted was a shared desire.

Sihtric closed his eyes, unable to face the shame that came along with his words: “I…”

Finan’s heart sank but he tried to hide the ache he knew was inevitable with a confused pitch of his voice. “Ya don’t want to.”

“No, it’s not that,” The Dane took a deep breath that quaked his slender shoulders, the effort looking monumental. When he finally did open his eyes, his gaze snapped to the side, not just to avoid the Irishman but in a pointed direction. “ _Odin fylgjagð mir_ …”

The older warrior didn’t know the exact meaning of the guttural Danish words, but had heard Sihtric and Uhtred mutter them before battle, or while clutching Thor’s hammer hanging from their necklaces, to know that it was some kind of a prayer. Following the younger man’s gaze, understanding quickly splashed over him as his eyes landed on a very drunk Uhtred ineffectively kicking some dirt at a wild turkey that lunged territorially at him in the heart of their village.

“He’ll give his permission, Sihtric,” Finan began as he looked away from the scene as Uhtred pulled a dagger from his boot with an uncoordinated list in his movements. He wouldn’t watch a turkey best his Lord. “He has no reason not to. Ya think that he’d prefer to have ya lodging in his home with his wife?”

The teen watched patiently as the turkey fluffed up its feathers and stalked away from Uhtred with an insulted gait. Though he couldn’t hear the words being shouted, he had a fairly good guess that his Lord was attempting to exonerate the bird’s nonexistent honor. “No,” he chuckled wryly. “But I don’t…. I’m not allowed to hold land.”

Finan frowned. “Sihtric…”

“What? It’s true!”

“And you’re not going to. You’re living under _my_ roof, on my land. Christ, I’ll charge ya rent if it’ll make it easier for ya. We’ll split the land tax that's going to line Alfred’s coffers, aye?”

The Dane turned to press his front against the timber framed roof, Finan’s section a far cry from being properly done. And with a cursory glance over at the thatching that the older warrior did manage to do told him that he would have to re-do it if they wanted to avoid leaks come the rainy season. But the teen took the extra work in silent stride, vowing to not mention it to the proud Irishman.

Just like he didn’t mention having to reweave the withies that were braided around the stakes in the walls, serving as the main source of insulation to combat the winter months that were nearly upon them. His silence continued, scared off by his boisterous attitude, when he woke before Finan did so he could check over the layers of daub the Irishman plastered unevenly on the exterior, leaving a parade of small holes that would crack come the spring, when the mud mixture of wet soil, sand, animal excrement, and straw would see expansion.

It wasn’t that Sihtric enjoyed the hard labor of building a house that wasn’t even his. They’d suffered muscle strains and pains for months on the dwelling, yet his upbeat attitude hadn’t slipped once.

But he didn’t look forward to getting up in the morning to build. He looked forward to being with Finan.

And where Finan complained vehemently about how long the building was taking, focusing only on the horizon and promise of what was to come, Sihtric was staring at the present and what was right before him. When the building was done, his excuse for being around Finan would be done too.

Finan was a Christian. And though Sihtric admittedly didn’t know much about his life, he knew enough that the older man hailed from a life of privilege and wealth. Ever watchful and talented in the scarce skill of observation, he didn’t miss the way the Irishman grimaced when scanning their stores for a meal, or the way he hesitated before drinking their ale. Why would he lower himself to being with a heathen slave? What Sihtric wanted could never be. And he didn’t even know if what he wanted was a shared desire.

But the offer… maybe Odin did hear his prayer.

The teen turned to catch onto Finan’s eye only to find him watching him intently. “If Uhtred agrees, then… I would be honored. And I would see to paying my share of Alfred’s coin.” He rolled his eyes with a smirk. “Odin knows it will just end up in our pockets again when he calls on Uhtred anyways.”

“As you wish.” Finan knew Uhtred didn’t give Sihtric nearly enough of a wage to afford what he’d be taxed. Not for the numerous acres tucked on the hillside with the wildflower rampant meadows and the valley access from his property. While the rest of them were paid handsomely for their services, the teen owned nothing, not even his name. If Uhtred wanted, he wasn’t obligated to pay the boy anything.

As he crouched down to grab another handful of the thatching, he vowed to remain quiet on the matter. All he wanted was Sihtric’s companionship, and the sooner the house was built and they could be granted privacy, the sooner that could be a reality. If it ever could be.

“Bridge.”

Finan stood up slowly and looked questioningly at the Dane, who casually resumed weaving the roof. “What?”

“ ‘I went from home when this happened, I saw a road of roads. A road above, a road below, a road in all directions.’ The answer isn’t island, you turd. It’s a bridge.” Sihtric’s arms tensed as he tightened the braided knot on the end of a thatched column and sent a triumphant smile at the older warrior. “You lose.”

The Irishman narrowed his eyes on him, but his gaze carried no malice. “ _Póg mo thóin_.”

And the Dane, chuckling, met the Gaelic curse that he didn’t understand with a Danish one. “ _Eldhúsfífl_.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slightly longer chapter with some spice and steam in it. \o/. And some neat Old Norse mythology, as well as history on Medieval penance and Viking hygiene.

The final month of the year that held significant holidays for both pagan and Christian alike was finally upon them. And, with it, the applauding completion of Finan’s house. In the weeks that preceded the architecture victory, he’d forced himself to show patience and humility in the face of his thundering panic. Since his exile, he tried to ignore the first few chapters of his life, where the pages were filled with glory and royal pride, and instead focused on accepting the simplicity of what his life became. As irony would have it, the one title that was written in both chapters was his esteemed position of being second-in-command. When he rode among the Irish forces in Ulaid, carrying his father’s orders with as much purpose as he did his sword, he was emboldened with a moving determination. 

But it was the determination, Irish pride, and love for his kingdom that would betray him as much as his vile brother. 

The cold winter wind battered into the side of his house, making both him and Sihtric look at the window pane nervously, waiting to see if its integrity would hold. Glass was an incredibly expensive luxury, typically reserved for the clergy or gentry. Or noble blood. 

Finan looked away. Let it shatter. He never wanted it in the first place. The Dane boy had miraculously found it when a traveling merchant troupe supposedly, innocently, dropped the crate of priceless glass likely destined for the new cathedral Alfred was constructing in the west. But it hadn’t cracked. Not one crack after falling off a moving wagon.

The Irishman had stared at the blood on the teen’s bracer when Sihtric excitedly told him his plan to install it in the house. _Danes_.

“Well, the roof hasn’t fallen in yet. That’s got to be a good sign, aye?” 

“I’m more worried about the floor collapsing.” 

Finan sent a smirk at the younger man. “You’re in the cellar. That’s _your_ problem.” 

The wind howled a more intense tune to show its strength, making the most annoying, high pitched whistle sing from the windows. But the house stood stalwart and stubbornly, not buckling or showing weakness in the weather’s taunting power. The feast Uhtred had in his longhouse to celebrate his friend’s final completion of his home had lasted far into the afternoon, the ale plentiful enough to carry them into the night. And in a way, Finan had been afraid to climb the hillside and retire to his house for the first time. For months he labored over it, pulling oak timber until his back ached, hammered copper nails until the pounding rang in his ears, suffered the acrid smell of the daub mixture that he was fairly certain was burned into his nostrils. 

But he wasn’t alone during it. And he didn’t leave the feast alone. 

“Shall we take the grand tour then?” Finan asked in a haughty baritone voice as he abandoned his safe post in the doorway. The floorboards, arranged so close together they were nearly overlapping, sighed gently at the Irishman’s weight, but they didn’t croak or lament in protest. And while Finan waited for the unmistakable sound of wood buckling, it never came. 

The house was larger than most in Coccham, though naturally smaller than Uhtred’s pagan longhouse. It was three rooms at best, with the largest sprawling the length of the main floor, where a small kitchen area was found tucked under the loft and nestled purposefully next to the majestic hearth Sihtric was starting a healthy fire in. The night chill would soon grip at them, and the heat would be needed to stave it off. 

A long line of cooking herbs were already hanging to dry over the hearth; a housewarming gift from Gisela. Though Finan accepted the gift with a gracious smile, knowing enough that the herbs needed to be hanged, he didn’t know what each was or their purpose. His proficiency in a kitchen was novice at best; he knew the process for salting and cooking meat and grinding grains to at least be made into dark breads, but that was the extent of it.

Plain meat and herbless bread. That’s what his diet would have to consist of unless the Dane proved more masterful with the pots and pans, or mortar and pestle. 

Unused oak timber that was once destined for the structure’s frame had been repurposed into a table and benches. Crude and dainty in size, it was large enough to satisfy the two men who’d be occupying the home, while also offering enough space for two guests to sit. The surface was bare and unused, but in the weeks to come, it’d see a wash of clutter; leather bracers, the occasional dagger or shortsword casually tossed there, and even some garments that were lazily discarded. Without the feminine grace of a woman overseeing the household, the home was subject to all of the masculine whims of its lords. 

“Uhtred brought by some furs earlier,” Finan glanced around their meager kitchen, living space, and dining area, torn on whether he found the size fitting or lacking. It wasn’t the castle in Ireland. But it was _his_. “I’m guessing he dropped ‘em down in the cellar for ya so you don’t freeze to death.” 

Once the dried logs caught flame in the hearth, igniting the great room with a steady glow, Sihtric glanced over towards the steep wooden ladder tucked in a dark corner, leading to an equally dark cellar. Back in Dunholm, the storeroom he and mother transformed into their space of majesty was graciously near the fortress’s kitchens. It suited his father well enough to have his mother so close to satisfy his urges, but it also allowed the kitchen’s heat to billow and warm them during the winters. A small luxury that kept illness away. 

But it was windowless and gloomy without a hearth. Once the door was closed, they only had each other to hold onto in the enveloping darkness. Kjartan afforded them one pathetic wick encased in animal fat for the night, and rarely did it live to see dawn. Sometimes they chose not to light it at all. 

The lack of response to Finan’s joke made him glance over at the quiet Dane quizzically. Out of their growing band of men, Sihtric was perhaps the most silent and finding him pensive wasn’t out of the ordinary. He was a listener, a skill that was almost as rare as gold, especially among warriors. It took Finan some time to read the teen’s expressions and interpret the distant look that pooled in his dark eyes, when he’d abandon the present and become lost to his own muddy thoughts. 

While everyone knew that Sihtric’s life had been filled with pain and abuse, never did anyone ask him about it, Finan included. Those thoughts were his own sacred demons to wrestle. God knew Finan boxed with his own enough. 

The Irishman followed Sihtric’s stare to see what brought about the sudden melancholy. 

By now the fire was raving and spitting embers up into its new chimney, the glow just enough to cast dancing shadows over the ladder leading down. On the other side of the house was an identical ladder that led upwards to the loft, the bedroom for the house’s Lord. From where he was standing in the great room, Finan couldn’t see how well - or not well - the loft had turned out. It was fairly large, spanning about half the size of the great room and nestled above the kitchen area. 

“The winter is supposed to be a downright bastard this year,” Finan began with a casual shrug of his shoulder, carefully watching Sihtric’s face to see any changes in his demeanor. “It might be best to have you sleep up here in front of the hearth. Uhtred gave permission to have you live here - not die.” 

The Dane blinked once and returned back to Coccham, released from whatever memories held him hostage. He looked away from the ladder to instead inspect the stonework on the hearth that he helped build. The rocks were rough against his grazing finger, reminding him of the day he nearly froze in the river when he dove to get them. “And how do you know the winter is supposed to be bad?” 

Finan found himself smiling at the teen’s evasive words. If he didn’t know Sihtric so well he would’ve pressed the issue, but the question told him that the boy was in agreement with the offer. “Hell if I know. It’s just what the farmers say.” 

“Do your farmers throw down runesticks and sun-bleached dove bones to read the Spinners?” 

“No, because they’re good Christian men who don’t believe in heathen games.” 

Though Sihtric smirked and looked back at the riverstones, Finan didn’t miss the way he briefly grabbed at the hammer on his necklace, or the way his lips quivered quickly with a whispered prayer. Much like their two languages that neither understood, their diverging faiths would always separate them. And yet, at the same time, the differences were what clung them together. 

“Well, this _heathen_ got you a gift.” 

That was a surprise to Finan. His eyes dramatically looked up to the roof, to the sides, and around him. “What? Building all of this isn’t enough? Sihtric, you’ve given me more than I probably deserve.” 

The Dane flashed one of his smiles he rarely showed people he didn’t know well - full-bodied and wide enough to show sharp incisors. “Probably? _Definitely_ more than you deserve. But I had to finish the house or else I would still be sleeping in the stables.” The teen suddenly became awkward as he reached for a small bundle balanced on the narrow mantle, hidden among an army of scrolls and books he couldn’t understand. Not that he ever wanted to; they were gifts from Hild and Osferth, having something to do with their Christianity. 

Which made his gift hidden there slightly more awkward. 

A small bundle fragile enough to fit in the palm of his hand, Sihtric dodged Finan’s curious stare as the Irishman drew close. Instead he busied himself with unwrapping the wool cloth sheathed carefully around the delicate object, his nerves crescendoing so violently he felt confident the older warrior would take notice. But if he did, he didn’t say anything. 

“Among our gods, Niorun is the goddess of dreams. She’s kind of a lesser god and doesn’t really get involved in people’s lives. There’s actually not many stories about her,” Sihtric felt his mouth turn dry and wondered when it got so hot in the house. Looking everywhere but Finan’s face, he offered the gift: a smoothly polished, prismatic crystal caught the fire’s glow, morphing it into fragmented slivers of a rainbow. “I… um… Prisms and glass balls are pretty valued to her. So it’s… we inscribe the stave here-” he pointed to the small collection of runes he etched into the slanted side, “-and…and if you put it where you sleep, Niorun will give you lucid dreams. If you’ve got the gift, she’ll bring you prophetic dreams but you’re a Chrstian so you probably don’t have the gift at all. So you don’t have to worry about that. Not that you’d worry. I don’t think you’d worry.” 

For someone who was normally so quiet, Sihtric’s nervous rambling was more of a surprise than the pagan gift. But while the Dane was focused fiercely on the crystal, Finan only saw him. He wouldn’t look at the prism until the next morning when he nursed a quickly coloring bruise on his cheekbone from Uhtred. A bruise that was lost among the other vicious wounds and scratches that would addle the pale skin on his chest and back. 

“You should… you should put it up in your loft.” 

In all rights, Finan shouldn’t have accepted it. It was pagan. Heathen. A sin against his God. But so were his desires that hammered impatiently in his body as he looked down at the young warrior. 

“Thank you, Sihtric,” Finan was tempted to reach for him then, to let his roaring wants finally take form, but he knew the wrongness in it. And he knew Sihtric’s natural skittishness wouldn’t allow it. Instead, he inclined his head exaggeratedly towards the ladder stretching up to the second story. “It’s your gift. I’ll let you find the right spot for it. And it’s cold tonight so… feel free to grab any of the furs up there for yourself.” 

For a few seconds, Sihtric didn’t say anything. He wasn’t sure what he was expecting. The gift was considered cherished and extremely intimate among the Danes but Finan didn’t know that. The subtle hint had missed its mark. “Hm? Sure. Of course.” He forced a nervous laugh and quickly plucked the crystal out from the older warrior’s hand. “Probably best to let me go into the loft first. Wouldn’t want you damaging your pride when it collapses.” 

The loft seemed larger than Sihtric remembered when building it, now that a bed covered in furs and blankets rested in the center of one wall and a square, flat-topped chest was pressed against the wall opposite it. There was no solid wall that sequestered the loft into its own space in the home; rather there was a short timber railing with unsophisticated balusters that overlooked the great room below. The slanted roof made the Dane duck his head as he stepped further in, listening to the dull crackle from the fire in the lower reaches of the homestead. 

A narrow window - also filled with an expensive pane of warped, bubbled glass - allowed a stream of moonlight to flood onto the bed; the only source of dedicated lighting in the loft. The Dane quickly placed the crystal on the chest, figuring that Finan would see to moving it as he wished later on. Maybe he wouldn’t even keep it out. Maybe his Christian guilt would make him hide it in the chest. 

Niorun would still come to him in his dreams. 

Running a hand over the length of his braids tightly twisted down the center of his head, Sihtric glanced idly at the bed. It was fairly large; a wool sack packed in with straw, covered by an impressive hoard of furs and knitted blankets. There were even two lumpy masses at the head of the bed that Sihtric could only surmise were the ever canorous pillows he heard so much about. And with heat’s natural inclination to rise, he doubted Finan would find himself suffering many chills. 

The sudden lamenting of wood behind Sihtric made his warrior instincts take over, and he spun around with a battle-ready stance, his hand already wrapped around the dagger hidden near his lower back. But the Irishman’s hands were splayed and raised in surrender, his backfoot not even off the ladder yet. For a brief second, Finan forgot it was his house and almost apologized, but during that second, he didn’t see the recognition register in Sihtric fight-slanted eyes. And it was in that second that their roles in life were reinforced, a divine reminder of the wild Dane before him. 

Finan felt his ache for him worsen. 

The winds shifted outside, and with it, Sihtric’s tension suddenly drained like a stopper was pulled. His hand dropped from the hilt and he looked around in slight embarrassment at nearly pulling a weapon in the man’s own chambers. “Habit,” he mumbled. 

Finan turned quiet. Sihtric was everything he should hate: a Dane, a pagan, young and filled with the brashness of youth. But all of those qualities, the exoticness of him and the unique mysteries emboldening his features, made the Irishman only want him more. The sly smirks, the joking banter, the slender curve of his wily body, the depths of emotion in his eyes that rivaled the dark seas of the north, his fatal capabilities as a warrior, the undaunting loyalty he had to Uhtred. 

The silence was misinterpreted by Sihtric, who awkwardly cleared his throat and made a quick dash for the ladder. It was their first night in the home and he already almost drew a blade on the man who was gracious enough to welcome him in. “It’s getting late. Uhtred said he’d be coming by for-” 

“Stay.” 

As the Dane brushed past him to scramble for the ladder, Finan had let his own emotions and needs finally cast aside his cautionary hesitations. And with Sihtric finally so close, he wasn’t about to let the rare chance slip away. The one word demand from the Irishman had a stilling effect on the younger man, who froze with one hand on the ladder. 

“Stay?” The Dane asked in the confused lilt of his voice that he employed when he thought he was using the wrong English word. “But I am staying-” 

“Here. Stay here. With me.”

The world stopped spinning and time turned nonlinear as Finan searched the teen’s face for his answer. He could deny him, he could shake his head with a parting comment on his masculine honor, he could give a poorly construed excuse to spare the Irishman his feelings. And all of those worries made Finan’s heart ache prematurely as the one thing that he wanted felt like it was slipping away from him before he even had it. 

And then Sihtric drew his hand off the ladder. 

It took all of Finan’s willpower not to powerfully grab at the Dane then, to yank at his clothing and throw him against the bed to claim him for himself. But he knew Sihtric enough to know - especially given his startled reaction moments ago - that his jumpy nervousness wouldn’t be instinctively warm to it. And why should it? All Sihtric had known from others was pain. 

It wouldn’t be the first time Sihtric would be taken to bed by a man. But it was the first time that he was invited and not forced. And it was the first time that he wanted it. He saw the longing on the Irishman’s face, how his muscled arms strained under his own self-restraint. And most importantly, he saw the question on his face as he silently asked for Sihtric’s approval. 

He gave it with a subtle dip of his chin. 

Time not only started up again but took on a frantic, fast-paced tempo. Fingers dug into the lip of Sihtric’s breeches, making him feel the myriad of rowing scars brush against his flat stomach, and he sucked in air as he was possessively yanked forward until their bodies met. “I have waited for you…” He distantly heard himself mutter as those scarred fingers delicately danced up his sides, over his neck, and gently cradled the sides of his face. 

“I was always here.” 

The kisses started tender and experimental as Finan leaned down to pepper the smaller man’s neck, but quickly turned frantic and desperate for both of them. Sihtric didn’t fight the Irishman when his back was slammed against the wall as his lover fought with his tunic and linen undershirt. And when Finan dove at him for a hungering kiss, pushing him so rough against the wall that he’d bore bruises come the morning, his own fingers greedily clawed at the Irishman’s bulky back. 

Boots were kicked off in a frenzy, weapons and bracers next. Feeling strong arms hugging him from behind, the warm, naked body begging to claim him, Sihtric slammed his eyes shut with a shaky breath as an exploring hand snaked around his front and began fighting with the knots holding his breeches up. Another hand surprised him by grabbing his chin, turning it impatiently to the side to guide him into a brutal, consuming kiss over his shoulder. 

The heated air from the stirring fire below rushed over Sihtric’s naked skin. And with his mouth enraptured by the Irishman’s selfish kiss, he couldn’t see where his breeches were tossed to. 

Everything happened fast. So fast that Sihtric was still inwardly fighting with himself over whether he wanted to remain a passive, submissive partner. But as the edges of the bed slammed against the backs of his knees and Finan’s desiring body plastered against his, he knew already without asking what his role would be. To a free Dane, it was a position worse than death, for it would spell him out to be a lesser man, ineffective in fighting and unable to provide. He would be deemed an outlaw and cast out from their society. 

But he wasn’t a freeman. And for the first time in his life, Sihtric almost laughed in glee at the privilege his lowly status granted him. 

The fount of patience Finan possessed had run dry, and he couldn’t wait anymore. Not as he held the naked young man with view of the bed behind him. His arousal, wedged between their warm bodies, had taken on a craving ache that stirred his impatience even more. He didn’t have any oil in the loft, not having anticipated _this_ playing out. And as he broke from the kiss and cupped his hand along the Dane’s sharp jawline, he leveled an apologetic look at his lover. 

The sudden shift from smoldering to regretful wasn’t missed for Sihtric. 

“I am not a fair maiden.” 

Finan smirked at the unmistakable bravado in the Dane’s words. “No, ya are certainly not.” His hand gingerly dropped from the young warrior’s face in a deceiving gentleness before grabbing hungrily at his shoulder and giving him a rough shove forward, just enough to overpower and make the Dane fall to the bed on his back. 

The furs and bed were probably the most comfortable and plushy that Sihtric had ever laid on before. But he didn’t have much time to relish in the bliss before the bed dipped as Finan crawled over him, one hand plastered down next to his head to support his weight while the other impatiently slipped between the Dane’s legs and forced them to part. The hand lingered on the inside of Sihtric’s thigh, the touch burning and making his stomach flutter in the best of ways, before it ventured inwardly, the fingers prodding and circling him. 

The loft was illuminated solely from the wash of pale moonlight and the dull glow from the fire that managed to rise up to them, though it more embellished shadows than anything. But Finan didn’t need more light to read Sihtric; he listened for the erratic approval of his lover’s breath before slipping a digit inside of him and felt the tension in the teen’s lithe shoulders subside as his body accepted it. Part of him still felt remorseful at not having anything better to ease the Dane’s discomfort, but he wouldn’t discount Sihtric’s tolerance as a warrior. He found life in the pains of battle, and maybe his pleasure wasn’t much different. 

The Irishman quickly lowered his lips to his lover’s as he added a pair of fingers to join the first, anticipating the whimpering moan that he swallowed up in the feverish kiss. 

Sihtric breathlessly yanked himself free from their lips embrace to pant fretfully, not holding back from letting a litany of pleased sounds and groans crawl their way up his parched throat. It was only then that he realized how much noise he’d been making, and how much form it took as he clawed at the poor Irishman’s back and chest, leaving trails of reddened, swollen skin. While it wasn’t his first time with a man, it was his first time laying with a Christian, and their differences were already beginning to show. While Finan grabbed at him with a surprising surge of possessiveness and domineering drive, he wasn’t nearly as vocal. 

Back in Dunholm, he’d heard the warriors make fun of their Christian counterparts and how restrictive they were in intimacy. Their church, like everything in their lives, controlled what was an appropriate position to be shared between lovers. Laying flat, facing one another, was supposedly the only appropriate course for couples, for it was believed to provide the _least_ pleasure for the couple while still retaining discipline and chastened desires. To indulge in anything else was to be tempted by the devil. 

Or a heathen. 

Once the fingers withdrew from his body, leaving him with a carnal craving to be suffused again, Sihtric took matters into his own hands. As submissive and willing of a lover as he was, he was still a dangerously trained warrior. Hooking a leg around the Irishman while grabbing at his shoulder, he quickly off-balanced the older man much like he would when wrestling for the upper hand in a spar, turning their bodies until a confused Finan looked up at him with wide, questioning eyes.

Planting a knee on either side of his lover’s hips, Sihtric sank himself down with a self-satisfied smirk darkened with lust. He was no Christian, and his wants wouldn’t be curtailed by their god. 

Still wide-eyed at the sudden change, the meaning not lost on him, Finan froze for a second. It was wrong, all of it was wrong. Being with a man, with a Dane, with a pagan, with Uhtred’s servant. So what difference would it make that he was indulging in a sacrilege position? He’d admit his sins to Osferth later and suffer the poorly veiled judgmental looks from the baby monk. In the months to come, it’d become as normal of a routine as feeding the stock and tending to the farms. 

God was certainly good. 

His hands grabbed ardently on the Dane’s narrow hips, steering him back towards his weeping arousal he couldn’t leave untended to any longer. As much as he wanted to savor the view of his lover’s toned body, his needs were impatient. The impassioned touch conveyed the unspoken keenness, prompting the younger man to reach back and guide the Irishman’s desires to his own. 

Where Finan shuttered a breath at the sudden restrictive heat that met his advance, Sihtric closed his eyes. “Relax…” 

The word didn’t have the effect the Irishman was hoping for. Immediately, the Dane’s eyes snapped open and looked down at him in stubborn defiance. And it was in that look that Finan was reminded that he wasn’t holding a fragile woman but a proud Dane. 

Though Sihtric said nothing, no words were needed as he dropped his hips down stubbornly, making both lovers grunt in a vying mixture of pleasure and pain as their bodies joined together. The pressure and heat around Finan was so great he looked up at his lover’s face to make sure he didn’t regret his ornery, lascivious move. But if the pain was too much for the Dane, he didn’t show it. The stubborn deviance slowly gave way to a determined, wanton need. 

The fire’s crackle now joined the sounds of their love making; grunts and moans mixed with flesh hitting flesh and the bed rocked against the wall in tempo with their desperate rhythm. Finan had bedded plenty of women during his past life in Ireland, and again when he found himself free on Saxon lands. But he was always the one to set the pace with his lover happily obliging him. This time, however, he found himself moving with a starving agony. Sihtric was brutal in his demands, the vivacious pacing unlike anything Finan had in the past, and he found himself struggling to keep up. 

His grip tightened possessively on the younger man’s hip, his fingers digging in so fierce that they’d leave a splatter of bruises come the next day. His other hand grabbed madly at Sihtric’s, impatiently shoving it at the boy’s own neglected length. And one imperious, dark smirk up at his lover told the Dane that it wasn’t that Finan was being mindfully inattentive; he wanted a show. 

As young and viral as Sihtric was, his tender years proved to be a disservice in the end. His touch on himself blundered him over the invisible edge, making his entire body tense around his lover as his vision went dark and his bliss became too much to bear. Distantly, he heard Finan’s own throaty grunts and felt the sudden jerk of his hips as he emptied himself deeply into him. 

For several moments, they said nothing, only fought to catch their breaths and wait for the post-coital haze to clear. It was Finan that moved first, lifting a shaky hand to carefully brush aside a stray strand of dark hair that had come loose from the Dane’s braids. “Remind me again why we didn’t do this sooner?” 

Sihtric laughed wobbly, his voice still hoarse from the intimacy. “I was busy building you a house.” Though there was an ache beginning to throb in him, he didn’t want to disentangle himself from the Irishman. If he did, he was afraid he would wake up and find it was a dream. “And probably your God.” 

That admonition earned a grunt of displeasure from Finan, but he tried to mask it as he carefully wrapped his arms around the younger man and pulled him to lay beside him. “Don’t remind me,” he grumbled a little. “I’ll seek out Osferth tomorrow and repent. I believe the punishment is twenty years of fasting for me.” 

Sihtric smirked and reached for the edge of a fur, using it to mop up the sticky mess he left on the Irishman’s chest. His thumb tapped the cross inches away. “Close. I missed.” 

Narrowing his eyes on the Dane, Finan wasn’t sure if he was joking or not. “Punishment for fornicating with yourself like that is whipping, ya know.” 

The threat was lost on the young man, who laughed jovially. “So you’re going to whip me while I touch myself? I’m not seeing the punishment in this.” 

“Heathen,” the Irishman mumbled without malice. In truth, he didn’t care about the punishment so long as they would both be kept safe. Which led him to… “We will need to be-” 

“Secret, I know.” 

“No telling anyone.” 

Sihtric was quiet for a spell as he leaned his head against his lover’s bulky chest, hearing the furious flutter of his heart. “Except Uhtred.” 

It was Finan’s turn to be quiet. He didn’t understand Danes well, especially when it came to their customs and beliefs. He knew Uhtred had saved Sihtric’s life by accepting his oath and taking him as a servant… a slave. When Finan had been forced into slavery for the two years, he’d imagined every possible scenario to defy his owner, even if it came in the smallest form of choosing when he wanted to piss. But Sihtric wasn’t like that. He didn’t search for outlets to explore newfound freedoms, and instead lived contentedly seeking approval from Uhtred. 

Though it also wasn’t explicitly stated, he knew that he couldn’t simply _tell_ Uhtred that he’d chosen to take his servant as his lover. By all legal rights, across both Saxon and Danelaw, Sihtric was Uhtred’s man. And they had to heed to Uhtred’s decision. 

The Irishman sighed at the thought of the conversation. “I will speak with him.” 

“He will listen. He’s a good man,” Sihtric mumbled as he fought with an approaching fatigue. His eyes already felt heavy and ladened down. “I should wash before bed.” 

Finan’s arm around the Dane unwittingly tightened at the threat that his lover would be leaving him, even if it was just temporary for him to carry out his bizarre preoccupation with hygiene. “You Danes are so vain. _Too_ vain.” 

“And you Christians are too dirty.” 

Grunting lowly in hopes to put the conversation to bed, Finan dared a quick glance down at the younger warrior to find him staring up at him expectantly. He knew it was a hopeless want. The Danes, as fate would have it, were notorious for their odd penchant to maintain routine hygiene practices that surpassed a noblewomans. They carried with them combs, toothpicks, and strange chewing herbs that cleaned their teeth. It bewildered Finan endlessly that every morning, Sihtric and Uhtred would go through the time consuming process of washing themselves, smudging their eyes with charcoal, carefully combing their long hair, and then calmly braiding and tying it back. 

That was just the morning routine. They had an entirely different one for night. 

“Can’t ya do it in the morning?” 

The smaller man grinned. “I will _also_ wash in the morning, yes.” 

“Then I’ll just have to dirty ya again.” 

“You’ll hear no argument from me on this vicious cycle.” 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the kind words and encouragement! I've been adoring writing this piece and stringing together history tidbits in it. 
> 
> For rough translation of the Old Norse, check the notes at the end!

And a vicious cycle it was. The night blundered by in a mix of sleepy talks tucked in between rounds of intimacy before both of their bodies were too exhausted to keep going. The moon lobbed low in the night sky when they succumbed to their tiredness and finally awarded themselves the much needed element of sleep. 

When the morning sunlight angled itself just right to bask the two in its blinding existence, neither one could ignore it. They’d risen and partially dressed, leaving behind boots, weapons, and shirts, and stole small fanciful glances at each other while Sihtric rebraided his hair and fastened the knot at the back of his head. The heat between them only intensified after descending the ladder, and the smoldering looks could no longer be contained to innocent glances. 

By the time Sihtric’s back slammed against the table, Finan was already yanking the young warrior’s breeches down his hips, his own breeches slung low and open on his thighs. Without the heat of the fire, a chill teased the Dane’s exposed backside as his knees were pressed upwards and Finan pushed his body against his. The generous slathering of hazel oil stolen from the kitchen made his taking much quicker.

Never would Sihtric have the audacity to make a false claim of having the gift of prophecy. He was a devout pagan to his Gods, said his prayers when needed, and fought in hopes of achieving Odin’s glorious gaze. He dreamed of one day feasting on the best foods in Valhalla among the world’s best warriors. But never was he privy to the Spinners conspiring conversations of the future. And yet, at the most inopportune moment as he felt the wooden table splinter into his back from the rough rocking, a chilling thought struck him. 

Uhtred was supposed to deliver cod for the house's cellar. 

The front door burst open as the Lord of Coccham strolled in with an upbeat bounce in his step, undoubtedly thinking his unannounced arrival to be a source of humor. But how wrong he was. All three of them froze, and as Sihtric craned his head back to see the world and a stunned Uhtred upside down, he was fairly certain he forgot to breathe for a few seconds. 

Finan hastily jumped back from the teen and scrambled to pull his breeches up, hoping to get an explanation in while his Lord was silenced by his astonishment, wide eyes snapping between the young Dane sprawled out on the table and the Irishman standing purposefully in front of him. “Uhtred! This... It’s not what it looks like!” 

Finan speaking broke the spell on Uhtred, whose face immediately morphed from rattled to irate as he pieced the scene together. For once, he was inwardly happy that he left his sword at home, for he would’ve been too blinded by his presumptuous anger to stop himself from running the blade through his second-in-command. But there was nothing to stop him from beating the Irishman to death. 

He didn’t remember closing the gap between him and Finan before his fist collided with his cheek. 

“Uhtred!” 

He either ignored or didn’t hear the teen shout his name as he threw the Christian against the wall and immediately slammed his forearm against his throat, pressing dangerously on the delicate windpipe. “I _allowed_ this arrangement under the assumption that you were a man of _honor_ , you disgusting welp.” 

Finan felt the precious resource of air fighting to fill his lungs. “I had planned on asking ya-” 

“What? Before or after you forced yourself on him?!” 

As he tried and failed to swallow frantically, a flood of saliva began to collect in the Irishman’s mouth. But the misunderstanding, the accusation, was like a punch to his gut. “ _Force_? I didn’t force anything!” 

“Uhtred, _œrinn_!” 

It was the native Danish word that brought Uhtred back to himself and made him notice the unnatural blue tint to the Irishman’s lips. Letting up enough to allow Finan air, he looked over his shoulder at the teen who had managed to pull his own breeches up in the fray. 

“ _Er þessi svá?_ ” Uhtred asked quickly in a pressing, urgent tone. Finan looked between the Danes, their language lost on him, so he relied on their voices volume and emotion for translation. His Lord had the same look in his eyes that he did when passing judgment on another, when he was looking for facts and nothing else. But his voice softened slightly. _“Gerði þú viljhannr,_ Sihtric?” 

The young warrior wet his lips and laughed nervously. “ _Já, mjök._ ” But his laughing grew more hearty as he nodded his head at Finan, his voice taking on the same intonation it did when he was joking. “ _Gereigir veghannr. Hann ek lítar smár_.” 

Whatever Sihtric said stole the tension and murder from Uhtred’s body, changing his expression once again to surprise. He arched a brow and when he spoke it was in the high-pitched tone he used when they’d poke fun at the teen for his inability to grow a full beard. _“Smárr?”_

Sihtric rolled his eyes. “ _Reisiligr. Mjök.”_

_Mjök._ Finan made a mental note to ask what that meant later on. Assuming he survived. “If I’m going to die, I’d like to at least know what is being said of me.” 

Uhtred only then seemed to remember his bloodthirst to defend his man’s honor, though it seemed there was nothing to defend. His look lingered on the teen for several more seconds, waiting to see if the boy would say anything further in the safety of their tongue. But the honesty - the naked, unabashed honesty - brought a surprised chuckle to Uhtred’s lips. He stepped back and slapped Finan on the shoulder in a brotherly gesture. “He says you are a lousy lover. Lazy. The worst.” 

“I did not say that.”

Looking past Uhtred, Finan glanced at Sihtric to try to read the situation better. The young Dane’s stance was more casual than it was moments ago, the corners of his smirk telling him that the danger had passed. Whatever Danish was exchanged had cleared the misunderstanding. Still, Finan couldn’t stomach the accusations that were lodged at him, and it pained him to look at his newfound lover and think…

“Uhtred,” the Irishman began in a grave tone, stepping forward. Judging by how his Lord took a deep breath, he already knew what would transpire. “I would never…. I could never hurt Sihtric like that. He is my brother in arms and… and more with your consent.” 

The humor that had once been on Uhtred’s face subsided a bit as he looked between Sihtric and Finan, two of his best warriors and closest friends. And they were now willingly putting themselves in a difficult situation that could spell certain death and hardship for them. He knew enough of Christianity to know the intense punishment that would be brought down on Finan if it got out, though there was little he could do to shield the judgment beyond keeping the secret. Christians and their Christian God were out of his control. 

But Sihtric wasn’t. 

The boy was his. And still seen as an honorless slave among the Danes, albeit a fearless warrior with cunning ways. If other Danes learned of Sihtric’s relationship with the Irishman, he wouldn’t be subject to the brutal retribution and exiling from their kin, for so long as he remained a slave he had no honor to defend. 

It pained Uhtred to say the heavy words, but he did so in Danish out of respect for Sihtric. “ _þú megeigir óbinð fran mik ef mit hánum._ ” 

Sihtric blinked once but there was no hesitation or regret when he replied. “ _Ek veit_.”

They held each other’s eye for a while, Uhtred not missing the brief flicker of sadness in the teen’s gaze. But there was no grieving, and that’s all he needed to see to laugh once and nod in admission. “I suppose your cellar will now have room for more meat, Finan. I’ve got some cod outside to start up your reserves.” 

Finan didn’t know what they said in Danish but he was so happy over the approval that he didn’t bother to ask. “Cod? And here I was hoping you’d be bringing something finer in time for Christmas this month.” 

“We’ll be feasting on better than cod for the holidays. And it’ll be fresh. Now come outside and drag your damn fish in.” 

Sihtric didn’t follow but he did level a genuine, warm smile on the two as they filed out of the house, sharing feast ideas and clearly having different concepts of what a ‘great feast’ consisted of. When alone in the kitchen with his thoughts, the teen looked down at the edge of the table in pure happiness. He was finally given something that was devotedly _his_. And yet, it came at a great expense. 

Uhtred’s words echoed in his head: “ _I cannot pardon you so long as you are with him.”_

And Sihtric’s response had come so quick: “ _I know_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Uhtred, œrinn!” = "Uhtred, enough!" 
> 
> "Er þessi svá?" = "Is this correct?" 
> 
> "Gerði þú viljhannr, Sihtric?” = "Did you want him, Sihtric?" 
> 
> “Já, mjök.” = "Yes, very much." 
> 
> “Gereigir veghannr. Hann ek lítar smár.” = "Do not kill him. I like him a little." 
> 
> “Smárr?” = "A little?" 
> 
> “Reisiligr. Mjök.” = "Fine. A lot."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some historical tidbits, check notes at the end!

Standing outside the dwelling that was transformed into a house of worship, Uhtred looked up at the sky and sighed impatiently. The sun was just behind the damned cross Hild insisted she put on the house. A dusting of snow covered the roof. 

“He’s been in there a while.”

Sihtric shrugged. “It’s been a pretty good week.”

* * *

“And I ask for God’s forgiveness for last Monday.” A pause. “For both times that day. Do you need to know where-”

“No,” came Father Beocca’s hasty words, though muffled from behind his hands cradling his face. “Please, Finan, continue and… I pray that you use better sense of brevity. God sees your sins and, ever merciful, does not need to relive them.” 

“And neither do we,” Hild said in a flat tone. Casting a glance at Osferth, seeing the faraway look in the monk’s eyes that hadn’t moved from a spot on the floor, she felt confident she spoke for all of them. She knew more about the young Dane and Irishman than she ever wanted to. 

“Finan…” Beocca drooped his hands from his face and leaned forward on the pew. The church - or ‘house of worship’ because Uhtred refused to acknowledge a church in his village - wasn’t much in terms of splendor and elegance. The pews were rickety, rotting wood left over from the houses they built, and the altar was a stack of stones they’d accumulated from the valley. The only thing of worth was the tarnished silver crucifix Beocca had taken from the clergies treasury in Wintanceaster and gifted to the young church. Though he had asked for something of more opulence in hopes of inspiring more parishioners in Coccham, the bishop had selected possibly one of the most disheartening pieces from the back of the treasury. 

“You are a good Christian,” the priest slowly began, forcing a shaky smile. “You attend church regularly, praise His name, keep the Holy trinity in your heart.” He looked up at the crucifix for strength. “But this is your fourth time seeking repentance in three weeks. Ten days from Christmas, no less, during a time you should be abstaining from sins of the flesh to keep yourself pure.” 

Finan nodded slowly but his blank face didn’t seem to register the urgency. “I’ve been working on my penance.” 

Beocca shared a weary glance with Hild, the latter’s patience already spent. They’d been in the confession for an hour. “Only God can forgive your sins, and… and he is a merciful God,” Beocca couldn’t keep the defeatedness from his voice. “He can only forgive sins when it is clear that there has been repentance, shown through penance. And… I’m not confident that we won’t be having this conversation again next week or sooner.” 

Not seeing any ground being gained, Hild hastily butted in. “Provide the church a worthy altar that will make all of Wessex stare in wonder. Any future penance will be devoted to this effort. A very long, laborious effort.” 

“Perfect, yes. That is exactly the type of holy devotion God would like to see,” Beocca was quick to support it. Slamming the Bible shut, he dunked his fingers in the small copper bowl of holy water and quickly made the cross on the Irishman’s forehead. “In the eyes of God, I absolve you of your sins.” 

Feeling the water drip down the bridge of his nose, Finan smiled stiffly. When he first started seeking confession weeks ago, he’d cornered Osferth and asked for the monk’s time. The monk had nervously told him that while he was a holy man, it was not in his power to bestow forgiveness of sin. That power rested with an ordained priest. But as a friend, he’d do what he could for Finan… until he heard the theme of the sins. White faced and awkward, he’d employed Hild’s advising when the Irishman came by for his second confession. The nun had stared hard into Finan’s face and delivered her divine advice. But a woman with womanly talents, she began to notice the subtle glances Sihtric and Finan shared around Coccham and how they disappeared together at the ends of feasts and gatherings. 

She knew whatever she told Finan wouldn’t stick. And so Beocca was asked to step up to the task. 

Walking down the feeble aisle that fed up the center of the church, the holy entourage following at his heels, Finan fastened the broach on the front of his fur-lined cloak. Christmas would be in seven days and Jol, the pagan holiday on the Winter Solstice, in three days. Their sleepy village of mixed faiths would celebrate both with equal grandeur and feast nightly from the start of Jol to Epiphany’s eighth day. December was proving to be a cold, blistery month, but the holiday preparation around the village warmed their hearts and minds. 

Shoving the church doors open, the Irishman blinked rapidly at the sudden burst of sunlight, trying to get his eyes to adjust. He’d been in there for quite some time.

“We were just about to leave for the hunt without you,” Uhtred quipped good-naturedly before nodding in greeting to the others that hesitated in the doorway. “Hild, Father Beocca, Osferth.” 

The three Christians mumbled half-hearted greetings and stiff nods, though their gazes were all fastened on the other Dane standing there, sleeved arms crossed over his front, with a pleased look on his face. “Are you free of your sins now? Your soul is clean?” Sihtric chuckled. At first, he found confession to be a strange practice, but now it was proving to be a source of amusement and pride. Each week he strived to keep Finan in there a little longer. 

Osferth was the only one who refused to look at Sihtric, that far off stare still loitering in his gaze. “Until next time.” 

The pleased look on the young Dane’s face deepened. 

Sensing the annoyance from the nun beside him - though he wasn’t sure if it was from the sinful deeds committed or her having to listen to the jarring intimate details for so long - Beocca cleared his throat to defuse the situation. “Uhtred, I do not mean to leave you so soon around the time of our Lord.” Both Danes rolled their eyes. “But Coccham’s church-” 

“-House. It is just a house.” 

Beocca blinked. “Our… holy house,” it was a compromise, “is lacking the eucharist, candles, and proper altar attire for the Great Mass.” 

Uhtred shrugged. “We can always skip it.” 

“We will absolutely not!” The bite in Hild’s tone was so scathing the Dane was sure she maintained warmth in the December chill solely from it. 

“What I mean to say,” Beocca carefully descended the rickety, uneven steps that led up to the church. They were haphazardly installed with haste due to Sihtric’s unease when assisting in building the dwelling. The boy had asked about their god smiting pagans on consecrated ground, his unnerve making him frequently pause in fastening timber to grab faithfully at the hammer hanging from his neck. “I will be traveling to Wintanceaster for a few days to get these items. It would be unfitting for Coccham’s first Christmas to be missing them.” 

As much as Uhtred poked fun at the Christian faith, calling priests wizards and taking far too much enjoyment in how easily provoked the devout were, he was a prideful lord in providing for his village. Gisela and Sihtric had leveled him surprised stares when he announced his willingness not only to allow the Christmastide and Epiphany tradition, but encourage it with plentiful feasts and honoring their sacred rites. Granted, Jol was to be honored with as much flair and pomp, and neither would be allowed to eclipse the other. 

He was embracing the united England Alfred boasted so much about. Danes and Saxons living harmoniously together. At the thought, his attention shifted to Finan and Sihtric, who were doing a poor job at inching near one another while trying to make it appear subtle. Maybe a little too harmoniously. 

“You know robbers and thieves travel the road at this time of year. Traveling on your own is too dangerous.” He nodded towards the monk still fighting with his trauma. “Osferth will travel with you-” 

“I’ll go.” 

Finan’s head snapped to Sihtric, his voice filled with the same incredibility the others were feeling. “You?” 

There was a pained question in the Irishman’s tone that didn’t go missed from the young Dane, as if to say, ‘But what about me’. But Sihtric avoided acknowledging it out of fear that he’d be tempted to stay and send the baby monk in his place. And that just wouldn’t suit his plans. He needed Father Beocca alone. 

Uhtred arched a questioning brow at the teen, clearly seeing through him. “You want to go to Wintanceaster?” He asked skeptically. “What of our hunt?” 

It was the Irishman that spoke up then in a hurried tone that made Uhtred’s skepticism over the situation mount tenfold. “We can go. Ya and me. Let the boy play bodyguard for the priest.” 

Hild retreated back into the church, leaving parting words before fastening the rickety doors shut: “Well, I for one think it’s a wonderful idea to… encourage separation between certain parties.” 

In the end, much to Father Beocca’s queasy protests, the Dane boy had gotten his way. It was late morning by the time the horses were dressed in tiers of furs and the unlikely duo started out in a quiet, casual canter from Coccham through the narrow valley. If they maintained their meandering pace, Beocca would walk through his house’s entryway in time to enjoy a simple stew over the hearth. 

Winter was a special time. But a dangerous time. Food became scarce as the animals either hibernated or migrated, and the rivers and seas turned viciously cold. The farmers were forced to lay their tools down for the season and pray that whatever grain they managed to gather in the fall harvest would see them through the dreary months. It was a time of illness, when those with lesser fought to find ways to stay warm. Normally, as cold as the winters would be, Wessex was southerly enough to be spared snow. But this year was already proving trying. 

And yet, winter was Father Beocca’s favorite season. With all of the leaves fallen from the trees, the wind didn’t catch in their net and rustle their songs. The wild grasses were frozen and barely swayed in the breeze, letting him hear the world in its still, natural state. That stillness was so mesmerizing that prayers felt otherworldly, as if God brought upon the frozen serenity so he could hear them clearer. 

And Beocca would’ve been happy to remain in silence during the day-long ride, pretending it was only him and his Lord, if not for the stare he felt on himself. 

Finding the pagan teenager watching him, the priest smiled politely, but the pleasantry was forced. He didn’t know Sihtric personally. And from what he had heard from Finan, the image that was painted wasn’t very inspiring. 

“Our stay in Wintanceaster should be short. One or two nights at most,” Beocca slowly ran his stare up and down the boy, frowning at the blackened leather armor, breeches, and deep chestnut wool cloak embellished with a gray wolf’s fur along the edging. He looked every bit a Dane despite his allegiance taking a dramatic charge of heart. And at face value, Beocca would’ve cursed his name and his pagan ways. 

But Uhtred had told him about Kjartan’s bastard son and the atrocities he was forced to endure. His heart opened for the boy like it did Thyra, seeing a moving strength in the ashes of his pain. 

“Good.” The nervousness that cracked his voice on the word made Beocca blink. Sihtric wet his lips and stared forward, his grip on the reins loosening and tightening. “I’ll… I’ll need to get back in time for Jol. It’s a few days before-” 

“I know when it is.” 

The silence returned. As did Sihtric’s nervous stare on Beocca. 

He was in no mood to satisfy an arrogant Dane and his childish games. If he only wished to make the trip to bother him so, then the boy would find him an unenthusiastic contender. Beocca was cold and tired, and wished to enjoy the winter bliss without having Uhtred’s servant-

“I need your help.” 

It wasn’t being asked for help by a proud Dane that almost made the priest fall from his horse but the sheer desperation in the teen’s pained words. And one glance at him told him the emotion was genuine. “Me? You need my help?” 

“Yes. Osferth is… he’s a monk and will tell me not to bother with material worries. Hild glares at me quite a bit these days.” Beocca didn’t have to wonder why. “So I don’t think she would help me. It has to be you.” 

The shared pious qualities in the selection of candidates wasn’t missed. Beocca narrowed his eyes on the warrior’s face. “If this has anything to do with Finan’s confession, you should know now that you’ll get no help from me. The rite of confession is a sacred forgiveness shared between God and his followers.” 

Sihtric smirked down at his hands, but quickly shook his head. “It is not about that. I… I know what is said in those… meetings are private. Secret.” 

The two shared a look. A knowing, pointed look that Beocca eventually interpreted as the boy seeking reassurance. Which he gave with a weak nod of his head. Sihtric was worried for the Irishman, and the priest almost felt guilty for briefly thinking of how he could twist that to encourage the Dane to end their affair. 

But after Sihtric’s next question, that thought derailed and was never revisited again for as long as Beocca breathed. 

“I need help picking a Christmas present for Finan.” 

For years, Beocca strived to encourage Uhtred to welcome the Lord’s light back into his heart. He was baptized before - twice - and it wouldn’t be difficult for the Saxon-born Dane to see the error of his unfaithful ways. The idea of spreading God’s word was at the front of every good Christian, especially those in Alfred’s close confidence, who strived for unity under His path. Dane. Saxon. It didn’t matter so long as God was praised by both. 

“You mean a Jol present?” 

“No, I mean Christmas.” As they came upon a frozen stream, Sihtric led his horse through first to crack the ice and bring on a gentle flood of the chilly waters. He gestured for Beocca to stop and dismounted, first waiting to see if the horse would drink before deeming the water clean and crouching to cup his hands in the water. “I… Finan is Christian and-and I guess Christmas is important.” He sipped the frigid waters and stood with a listless, worried sigh. “Please, Beocca. I… My mother was a Saxon and she told me some things about Christianity but not much. I just… I don’t know where to start in picking a gift that’s… that’s not… that’s not Pagan.” 

Beocca waited for the boy to get back on his horse and resume their slow canter, using the time to mull over the request. He almost pressed Sihtric on whether he acknowledged the divine purpose of their octaves and celebrations, but he wasn’t about to make the Dane slam shut the door that seemed open and inviting. “Well, you should know that the twelve days of Christmastide are a time of penance and prayer. It is not like your Jol.” 

Sihtric tilted his head to the side as his horse stepped over a branch. “Twelve days? Jol is twelve days as well.” 

Beocca nodded. “Twelve is a holy number. Just as nine is considered unholy.” 

“But you do not feast and decorate?” 

The priest chuckled lightly. “On the first day, Christmas, there is a big feast to celebrate Christ’s birth. The days following are filled with prayer and reflection. On the Twelfth day is when Christ was visited by the Magi and given gifts. And that marks the start of a new octave, or another start of celebrations that last an additional eight nights. We call that Epiphany.” 

Sihtric frowned and shifted uncomfortably in the saddle. “This sounds like a lot of praying.” 

“Epiphany is a time of festive celebration. Each of the eight nights, a saint is commemorated with feast and gift giving. I suppose that is closest to your Jol.” The priest sighed slowly, watching the white plume of fog dissolve in the air. “As for what to get Finan, that depends on why you’re getting him the gift and what you think he would like.” 

Over the past weeks, the young Dane and Irishman had busied themselves around their new house, turning it from an awkward dwelling to a lived in home. Their time spent together was sacred but not without the occasional bumps and bruises; Sihtric’s hygiene habits drove Finan mad, and Finan’s lack of herb knowledge made his cooking bland and tasteless. Finan was a morning person who rose with the sun while the Dane was more than content to sleep till noon and stay up long into the night. And while Finan insisted on hanging a cross on every wall in the home, Sihtric took it upon himself to chisel sigils and staves into the doorways to protect their home from the undead Dreygur and nightmare demon Mære. 

They enjoyed each other’s company, but neither was eager to explore their pasts. Sihtric knew Finan had been wrongfully sold to slavery from a wealthy family, and Finan knew Sihtric was born to a slave and raised among Danes. Maybe it was that neither wanted to spoil their time together, knowing that once death came they’d go to separate afterlives. 

“I don’t know what to get him. Or what he would like. If he were a Dane, it would be easy. An amulet or talisman, like the valknut for power over enemies or a Mjǫllnir to protect him in battles.” Grinning lightly, Sihtric lifted the hammer on his chest. “Mjǫllnir.” 

Beocca glanced at it, his curious nature mumbling the Danish word of the popular necklace he saw so many Dane warriors wearing. “Well, religious items are always preferred for the octaves, but also remember that Finan comes from a royal education. If cost is not an issue, a book or journal may be good.” 

Sihtric’s brows furrowed as he dropped the hammer back to his chest. “Royal education?” 

The priest misinterpreted the teen’s confusion for keen curiosity, and nodded vigorously with a wide, encouraging smile. “Yes! Ireland is not much different from Wessex in ensuring their royal princes are educated in Latin grammar, logic and rhetoric, classical philosophy, the arts and music, mathematics, astrology… many, many subjects. Do you happen to know which subject Finan enjoyed the most? Perhaps you can get him something in that field.” 

The excitement that once filled Sihtric was suddenly gone, replaced with a bone-chilling fear. “Royal prince?” 

And as Beocca saw the lost, brokenness in the boy’s solemn expression, he realized his mistake too late. “You didn’t know.” 

The young Dane looked ahead at the frozen trail they followed, though didn’t see the soggy leaves and thatchy bushes lining their path. No, all he saw in his mind's eye was Finan’s grinning face, full beard that any man should be proud of, and the conviction in his strong eyes. It made sense now how quickly the stirring confidence came to the Irishman’s tone, how he faced Uhtred with the level gaze of an assured man and wasn’t fearful to voice his opinion to his Lord even when it was in disagreement. Finan was a prince, and was taught to lift his chin to the world. Not lower it. 

Unlike the lover he took to his furs who was nothing more than a lowly slave.

A pain of betrayal stung at Sihtric’s heart. Finan never told him, and had shied away from any conversation regarding his past. He must’ve been ashamed of his lover, the Dane dreadfully concluded, for him not to divulge such an important aspect of his life to him. And to think that the young Dane was accepting that he would never be pardoned, would forever be a slave to keep him and Finan together, while his lover hid his elevated status from him….

“I’m sorry, Sihtric. I had thought he would’ve told you already.” 

Sihtric wet his lips. “Me too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was really torn on which spelling to use for Yuletide. The popular spelling that we know it as today has been modernized to "Yuletide" but the Danish word is Jul or Jol. I've gone forward with using Jol. Christmas was around but, like mentioned in the story, it wasn't filled with uncle's getting drunk on Christmas punch and kids playing with nutcrackers. Epiphany was celebrated immediately following the 12-days of Christmas but there's disputes on when this actually occurred with the changing of the calendars around this time. 
> 
> This particular period for penance was seeing some drastic changes. In early Christianity, penance was generally given once in someone's life and was made to be a public spectacle (remember that scene in the show with Uhtred crawling? Not exactly era-appropriate). But this began to fall out of favor and penance was given graded punishments (minor to moderate sins were hefty fines). The Irish monks introduced the Penitentials, a book with set retribution for each sin. While the Saxons didn't integrate this blindly, it still had some influence during this period. 
> 
> It is also worth debunking a very large assumption. Homosexuality in the early Saxon middle ages was not given any specific penance, and was largely considered a fairly minor sin. Prior to the 11th century, there's little records that show someone was singled out for only homosexual acts. Around this time, the Church pushed for "Natural Law", or promoted sex only for the purpose of procreation. Any deviation, have it be homosexual or heterosexual, was considered sinful. So basically, masturbating and homosexuality were mostly viewed in the same light and considered the same sin. The harsh punishments didn't begin to emerge until much later around 13th century. But death for homosexuality was not introduced until even later in the mid 1500s.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you everyone for the awesome comments and kudos! I definitely do a little happy dance every time I see it. 
> 
> This was originally two separate chapters but I wanted to combine it into one gigantic one because I was way to excited when writing it. Unfortunately, I might be a day or two behind in posting due to the holiday but will certainly try! Check out notes at the end for a bit of history.

Hunting in the winter was difficult but not impossible. With the spectral trees naked of leaves, their skeleton arms stretched wide and up to the heavens, the animals were skittish without the safety of cover. They knew the dangers and traversed the world with a skeptical, skittish jaunt to their step, always prepared to flee on a moment’s notice. For the hunters, the lack of cover made their jobs all the harder. The frozen foliage proved difficult to walk on, for the frost crinkled and cracked loud enough to alarm their prey of their advance. 

But as Finan gripped the bow in his hands, his fingers chilled and pads of his fingers numb, he wasn’t putting much effort into concealing his presence, much to his Lord’s chagrin. 

Uhtred grinned at spotting the Irishman looking apprehensively towards the west while they traveled further east. He didn’t have to wonder why. “They will be fine. Sihtric has proved himself time and time again to be a capable warrior.” He kicked a branch at Finan and tried to ignore the flock of birds that took to the skies at the sound he made. They weren’t going to kill anything anyways. “Maybe even better than you.” 

“I wouldn’t go that far.” Smirking, it was difficult for Finan to rip his gaze from the direction he knew the Dane and priest were traveling, bound for Wessex’s capital. “I wanted to ask ya something…” 

A gray and white ringed oak tree was as good a spot as any to rest. Leaning against it casually, Uhtred looked patiently at his second-in-command. “Then ask. I would like to get _something_ from this hunt, even if it’s a hare.” 

They both knew they’d be returning empty handed. 

“I…” Feeling the sacrilege weight of his words and fearing the consequence they’d have for him, Finan grabbed at his cross devotedly. “I would like to get Sihtric something for your holiday. Jol? I don’t know the first damned thing about it and the bastard doesn’t drop hints of what he likes.” 

This was a surprise. But a pleasant one and a nice source of amusement for a chuckling Uhtred. “He likes you.” 

“I can’t exactly gift him myself for a pagan holiday. Nor would I want to. What do ya typically get?” 

Taking a deep breath of the cold air, Uhtred furrowed his brows and looked down at his hands. Memories of his youth with his Danish family bombarded him in a sudden blitz, filling him with a mixture of grief and tenderness. Before his abduction and eventual adoption, his time of celebration at the end of the year was in the same pious manner all Christians observed. After he was introduced to Jol and the pagan traditions, he relished the festive attitude and merrimaking that lasted for twelve nights. There were bells and bows in evergreens, cloved oranges given out to children, treats left out at night for Odin’s steed, and the communal effort of carving the yule log. 

But he knew not everyone was granted a privileged childhood of love and warmth. 

“Well, as a child, I would get sugared apples and spiced oranges, carvings to put in the trees, sometimes games. As I grew older, so did the gifts. Relics, stones, food, some clothes,” Uhtred shrugged and looked up after cleaning some dirt from under his nail. “But that was me. I doubt someone like Sihtric was given anything more than maybe some extra food.” 

Finan frowned, not following. In Ireland, and so far as he was seeing in Saxon lands, even servants were given time off and some kind of gift from their Lords. It was the octave that stressed the importance of humility, for Christ was born in rags and surrounded himself with the less fortunate. The story in the bible, The Rich Man and Lazarus, was a popular one observed during Christmastide prayer. “He must’ve gotten _something_.” 

It was Uhtred’s turn to frown at his counterpart’s confusion. “You were sold to a Dane slaver for years. Did Sverri ever show you mercy or give you more than a freezing stable during the holidays?” 

“Sihtric’s a warrior,” Finan couldn’t hold back the biting defiance from entering his voice at the crude reminder of his time enslaved. Those days were long ago, just as his life in Ireland. “And a bastard but he was still Kjartan’s son. I figured he’d have gotten some kind of special treatment during your holiday.” 

Uhtred laughed bitterly. “Special treatment? From the man who took sport in beating his son and ordering his men to shame him?” 

The cold in the air took on a renewed pungency to rival the stillness that gripped the Irishman. For a few seconds, he stared at Uhtred, the words not quite making sense to him. But they made perfect sense at the same time. He thought of Sihtric’s skittishness, of the way he tensed when others drew near, how his solemness had a tinge of sadness. He thought of how quick Uhtred was to jump to his defense when he walked in on them, assuming the most vile thing imaginable. 

But it wasn’t capricious and fabricated out of thin air. Coccham’s lord had reason to assume and accuse it. 

The stunned silence made Uhtred grimace and look back down at his hands. “That was not for me to tell.” 

But Finan batted away the apologetic words in an instant. “How do ya know all of that?” There was a hesitation and lapse of silence, long enough that the Irishman doubted that his Lord would answer him. “Tell me.” 

Shoving himself off the tree, Uhtred gladly took to loudly walking through the forest, turning more northerly where the trees grew denser. “When Sihtric first gave me his oath, I trusted him but was smartly hesitant. I pressed him for every detail he could give me on Dunholm, and I needed to know that he had no loyalty to his father.” With a pained sigh, he abruptly stopped and turned sharply to Finan at his heels. “Dunholm is in his past as much as Ireland is for you, my friend. You make him happy, and that is the best gift that you can give him.” 

As truthful as Uhtred’s words were, there was a band of pain that tightened around Finan’s heart, constricting it every time he thought of Sihtric’s smooth face and angular, sharp features in pain. When he first met the young Dane, he’d accepted the boy’s quietness as just who he was. And for a while, he didn’t think there was much more to him. But as their time together increased, the teen’s defenses lowered gradually, and his chuckles and banter replaced a solemn sadness. 

Nodding at Uhtred, he took a vow to never make Sihtric feel lesser or in service, and would forever strive to see the whimsical laughs and jokes. 

Empty handed and quivers still filled with as many arrows as they had before setting out, the two quietly made their way back to Coccham. The heart of the hunt was gone, turned stale by the darkened topic that somehow managed to weasel its way into the day. And while Finan could’ve accepted his presence and love to Sihtric being gift enough, he wanted to give everything he could and more to the young warrior.

Gisela stood on the edge of Coccham, excitedly anticipating the arrival of the game that the men would bring home. When they came close enough into view for her to see their empty arms, her hands planted themselves on her hips. 

Uhtred slowed his steps. “Does she look mad to you?” 

“I still want to get him something for Jol...or Epiphany,” Finan blurted out, ignoring his Lord’s scornful wife. One advantage of many to having a Dane warrior as his lover; when Sihtric was cross, the easiest solution was to grab their blades and spar. He doubted Uhtred could employ a similar tactic with his wife. “Besides sex and silver, what do Danes like?” 

Uhtred grinned and glanced up at the sky in fake consideration. “Raiding?” But he stopped to plant a hand on the grumbling Irishman’s shoulder. “Sihtric is simple. Well, not simple minded. He’s intelligent but his wants are simple.” Sparing a quick glance at his wife, judging the distance between them and making sure she was out of earshot range, he chose his words carefully. “He is also the son of a Saxon, and all of those who have meant the most to him will not be following him to Valhalla. While the ones who have hurt him will have a greater chance of seeing him there. Perhaps you should select a gift that is Danish but also Christian.” 

The meaning of the suggestion was profound and borderline comminatory, but not missed on the Irishman who nodded slowly. “Ya would allow this, Lord?” 

“I would. His faith is his own and I wouldn’t force him to accept anything he didn’t believe in.” He shrugged a little. “Or get him something that he can hang in the trees at Jol. Carvings and amulets are always needed. There’s left over timber from building that you can use to whittle something.” 

Finan barked a laugh. “Oh, I can whittle but whether it looks like something real is another story entirely.”

* * *

_“You must be proud of yourself. Maybe even think yourself strong.”_

_It was a goad and Sihtric answered in the mechanical, emotionless voice he hoped would make the punishment end faster. “No, Lord.” The defeatedness dragged his words down but served to hide the fear that was twisting his stomach. Standing in the middle of Dunholm’s great hall, where its Earl and his close confidants and men lavished with drink and food, he felt their mocking stares on him. All waited in anticipation for what was to come._

_His eyes were focused obediently on the floor in front of him until movement out of the corner of his gaze caught his eye. Boldly, he glanced to see Sven limp into the hall, his thigh bandaged with a strip of fabric crusted in dried blood. He could still feel the dagger - Sven’s own dagger - in his tight fist as he slammed it into the muscle, the sound of the warriors' cheers and applause silenced from the hammering of his own heart._

_The spar had ended in an instant with an angry Kjartan demanding his bastard son be brought before him for discipline._

_The sound of boots approaching made Sihtric brace himself as the cruel voice drew closer, echoing around the great hall to mix in with his men’s jeers. But not Tekil. Tekil stood motionless in the back, watching the events transpire with a stone cold expression._

_“I wonder if you forget your place without your mother here to remind you. The whore was at least good enough for that.”_

_The sudden flurry of anger in Sihtric rose to the coercion before he could stop it, making his hands close into shaking fists. It was the only thing he could do to stop himself from reacting further. But Kjartan, ever watchful, basked in the power as he stood inches away from the teen. “Do you wish to strike me, boy?” His father’s hot breath rushed over his cheeks. “Do you think of yourself as my son’s equal,_ slave _? Good enough to face him with a blade?”_

_Sihtric swallowed the acidic insults lining themselves on his tongue. The same insults he thought of when carrying out the menial work in the fortress, when he was forced to endure the demeaning comments and beatings. But they never took form. The slaves knew the cruel measures his father employed when it came to discipline. His mother’s screams that pitched above the sounds of the dogs ripping her apart, eating her alive, would forever haunt him._

_“Sven asked me to be his sparring partner, Lord,” the teen quietly mumbled, still avoiding the Earl’s domineering stare. “I was only obeying him, Lord.”_

_Nothing happened for a few seconds, and Sihtric knew that he said the wrong thing. Looking up, he glanced around the hall quickly. Like most slaves, he knew how to read the fortress and what the night would bring, whether the men were interested in a bloody spar, an entertaining beating, or something more nefarious. Hours had passed since the fateful spar between him and his cowardly half-brother. Enough time for the flow of ale to fill every tankard in the great hall, making the men stumble over their own feet and look hungrily at the subdued slave for sport. When sources of amusement dried up from lack of raiding, restlessness birthed discontent. And as an Earl, that needed to be dealt with swiftly to maintain the scales of power._

_Kjartan was a cruel man fluent in torture but he knew how to keep his men happy._

_Rough fingers painfully dug into his chin and forced him to look forward. And as his fear poured from his eyes when he met his father’s sharp, heartless gaze, making his breaths come in faster, he knew all hopes of mercy were gone._

_“Do you believe yourself to be a man of honor worthy of fighting back against my son?”_

_Sihtric blinked rapidly when the fingers held him harder. “I was only trying to honor my Lord and the training he has given me, Lord.”_

_Kjartan frowned deeply, making the scars zigzagging on his face chasm the dirty, warmongered skin. “You have nothing because you are nothing. And you dirty the meaning of honor just by saying it. Tekil’s decision to train you does not change the piece of worthless filth that you are. Just like your useless mother was.”_

_Sihtric heard her screams and smelled the stale metallic of her blood. “Does it bother you more that Sven was bested by a slave, or that your bastard son is stronger than your heir?”_

_In the crowd, Tekil looked away._

_The fingers dropped from his chin seconds before a fist crashed into his cheek, making his entire face erupt in pain. But even as he stumbled to regain his footing and cradled his aching jaw that’d turn a sickly blue and green, Sihtric didn’t make a sound. The one power he had in the situation was to starve Kjartan the Cruel of savoring the cries of his victims. And he wouldn’t give that up. Not then and not in the hours to come when he was shamed._

_In his stupor, the teen didn’t notice five of his father’s warriors approaching until Kjartan’s rage-filled voice shook him to his core. “Take him back to his room and show him just how_ honorless _he is. Each one of you.”_

Sihtric jerked awake with a violent start, his hands clawing madly for the man who had tormented him ruthlessly. Heart hammering wildly in his chest, he forgot that there was no way for Kjartan the Cruel to reach him beyond the grave. And when only soft furs filled his desperate fists did he realize that he wasn’t in Dunholm anymore. 

“Only a dream.” 

Father Beocca. He heard the priest near him, but as he half collapsed forward with a rushing sigh of relief, he didn’t see where the Saxon was. A clammy layer of sweat glistened over his skin, drenching his hair and making his long-sleeved linen shirt cling to him in the most uncomfortable ways. For a few seconds he only focused on the labored waves of his breathing to calm his racing pulse, telling himself that what happened was in the past and the fates had seen to it that it could not repeat itself. His suffering was over. 

A gentle hand was carefully laid on his shoulder, making the teen jump slightly and glance to the side. Father Beocca was crouched beside where he half-lay in a small nest of furs given to him the night before, when they’d arrived at the Saxon’s house in Wintanceaster just as the moon settled in its place among the stars. He didn’t put up a protest when the Christian welcomed him into his home, especially given that he’d need to save as much of the shillings that he did have on him to pay for Finan’s gift. 

“You were thrashing for a good while. I would have woken you but Thyra told me that it’s best to allow the nightmares to burn through a wick naturally.” 

He didn’t want the kind words, so naive in how to translate them. But the warrior felt the priest deserved some kind of acknowledgement, and the only thing he could afford was a stiff nod. He didn’t think he could trust his voice, and yet the words tumbled from his parched lips before he could catch them: “I haven’t lived in Dunholm for a while but I still wake up expecting to see him.”

Leaning back on his heels, Beocca watched the boy use the fur to wipe at his sweaty brow. His home was humble sized but gracious in volume for one man. Especially a priest. Most clergy followed the Lord’s word in embracing modesty and casting aside any fortunes to those who struggled. A purse filled with pounds and shillings would be weightless when welcomed into His Kingdom. And yet, Father Beocca found grace in his small abode. By welcoming in pagan teenagers and giving them a place in front of his hearth, he felt confident he remained in his Lord’s good graces. 

And in the ailing boy, Beocca felt his purpose in the Lord strengthen. “ _Non solum autem sed et gloriamur in tribulationibus scientes quod tribulatio patientiam operatur_.” Dropping the furs to join the sea of others, Sihtric casted a curious, questioning stare at the priest, making him chuckle lightly as he stood and offered a hand to the teen. “‘Not only so, as we also glory in our sufferings, because suffering produces perseverance; and perseverance, character; and character, hope’.” 

The young warrior didn’t recognize the words but he’d heard Finan muttering in the strange language during his times of prayer; before meals, several occasions sprinkled throughout the day that suspiciously landed on the same hours to make the Dane convinced it was planned, before bed. Christians prayed far too much. 

“I think I will need as much hope as your holy words can give to survive today,” Sihtric grinned faintly, quickly trying to take the priest’s kindness and transform it into something less tender. “Are you sure that your priests will be accepting of me?” 

Beocca didn’t miss the boy’s sudden shying away from his attempts to help. But he didn’t press the issue. Teenage boys were spurred from their own natural brashness and a need to stretch their developing selfdoms. Teenage _Dane_ boys, he surmised, were boundlessly more difficult. The Lord would inspire Sihtric when the time was right, he only needed to prime the path. 

“No,” Beocca eventually answered truthfully as he watched the young Dane shrug on his midnight armor over his undershirt, the thick leather zigzagging vest making his frame seem smaller. “But they’ll miraculously manage to hold their tongues when they realize you’ve come to purchase something.” 

The warrior chuckled as he tightened his belt. “Motivated by coin? Perhaps the church is not so different from Danes.” 

After Sihtric used the basin of water and some rags to wash himself, he set out with Father Beocca into the bustling Saxon capital. It wasn’t his first time traversing their narrow paths but he still looked around in wonder at the alien customs that differed so dramatically from Dunholm. The first being the incredible wealth of women. Dunholm had been a fortress held by his father and sheriffed by his rich collection of warriors. The surrounding Saxon villages, such as the one his mother came from, were also enslaved under his iron fist but those slaves rarely saw the fortress beyond delivering grain and supplies. Within the fortresses walls was a lawless swarm of proud Danes enjoying the finer aspects of life; ale, fighting, and bent over women. 

Walking through Wintanceaster was like walking through a stable of tamed horses after living among the wild beasts. Everyone moved with a driving purpose skirting on impatience, for the winter days were short and the sun would not be out for long. It was only late morning as the two reached the palace but its citizens busied around like frantic ants, trying to finish as much as they could in what was left of the day. 

The guards looked from Father Beocca to Sihtric a few times before sighing in defeat. “Relieve yourself of your weapons, boy.” 

He left the more obvious ones with the irked guard: his sword and dagger that was hidden near the small of his back. But he kept the one tucked in his boot. And the guards, wanting to be rid of the Dane’s presence, didn’t search him. 

Beocca led him down a few corridors gilted in the typical flair Christian’s considered luxurious. For a Dane, it was all dainty and fragile. But expensive. The Saxons weren’t haphazardly selected as the lands to pillage by his Danish ancestors; they were as well-known for being hoarders of silver and riches as they were for being pacified by their god. For years, kings and rulers would pay the exorbitant ransoms, Danegeld, demanded by the Danish raiding parties, and yet their coffers never seemed to empty. Their mistake had been assuming the Danegeld served to appease the Danish, when in reality it only made their drive to raid and pillage deepen. 

The mistake had cost them their lands and lives. 

“Bishop Denzel! It has been quite some time, hasn’t it?” 

“Ah, Father Beocca. I was just telling the clergy about the church you’ve been paining over in Coccham. Among pagans! You are truly a harbinger of God’s word.” 

Sihtric let their voices become background noise as he looked around the cathedral treasury held in a sprawling chamber nearly twice the size of Uhtred’s longhouse and filled with thrice as many items. Costly, expensive items. Everything from crinkled books to relics studded with glimmering gems seemed to glow a golden hue, awakening the Dane in him to marvel at their sheer cost. To think that Alfred was sitting on so much wealth and fortune, it was no wonder that the beloved king was capable of conjuring armies out of thin air. His feet carried him slowly down the dizzying aisles; crosses crafted in polished ivory and jewels, ossuaries enameled in sparkling gold, statues of shimmering silver, crowns with a rainbow of gems. 

He had thought the silver his father kept in Dunholm to be a vast wealth. 

Beocca had told him to purchase something small from the treasury, such as a candle or modest tapestry given the meager two shillings he had on him. It was his monthly payment from Uhtred, a stipend that felt like a fortune for the teen when he was first given it. It was enough to buy a live pig or two sheep, or two geese feathered and primed for cooking, or two pieces of bacon, or three bottles of fine wine. But it was all he had for the entire month before his Lord would replenish his funds. 

Voices made him glance over towards the entrance where he left Beocca and the bishop, though stiffened when his eyes landed on Wessex’s regal king standing among them. His brushes with Alfred had been superficial and neither had exchanged words to the other. Dutiful to his Lord, Sihtric had remained quiet beside Uhtred while Alfred and him exchanged tic for tac in the way that they did. But there was a familiar solemnity in the king’s monotone words that appeased the young Dane’s own sobered demeanor. They both kept their emotions groomed and tucked in close around the public eye. 

For a second, their eyes met. 

The subtle dip of the king’s brows was hard for the young warrior to interpret; either it was confusion or curiosity. But Sihtric uneasily looked back at the collection of white candles standing proudly on gold candelabras that cost four times his weregild worth. 

Four times. If someone were to kill him, all Uhtred would be entitled to was a quarter of a candelabra to make up for the “loss” of his slave. Sihtric could only hope his Lord would at least get the top so he could place a candle in it. 

The candles he could probably afford; they were nondescript, plain, and looked suspiciously similar to the ones he saw burning in the alehouse. Tilting his head left to right, he tried to find what made them so “divine”. And yet the more he studied them, the more he was convinced that they were the same ones used in the piss and ale smelling tavern. 

“Candles are the conduit for the divine presence and manifestation.” Sihtric jerked and instinctively reached for the dagger at his back only to grab at thin air. But as he looked at the king standing beside him, calmly staring at the candles, Alfred didn’t seem to take notice. Or at the very least, he didn’t show it. “...and his raiment was white and glistering. When the Holy Ghost descended upon the apostles, there appeared unto them cloven tongues of fire, and it sat upon each of them. At the conversion of St Paul there shined round him a great light from heaven while the glorified Christ is represented as standing in the midst of seven candlesticks, his head and hairs white like wool, as white as snow, and his eyes as a flame of fire.” 

Sihtric grinned wryly. “You are the second person to recite your god to me today, lord.” 

“Then it is a good day.” Alfred’s smile deepened, but it curiously didn’t reach his eyes. “We are children of God’s light stuck in a constant battle with the forces of Darkness, Sihtric. A candle's glow represents the purifying power of God.” 

The Dane hummed a little to himself. “You remember my name, lord.” 

“There is little I forget.” The king was quiet for a spell as he eyed the teen out of the corner of his gaze, watching him carefully. “Father Beocca says that you are here to find a gift. A Christian gift. You should know the cathedral’s treasury is not a shop, boy.” 

“It was Beocca’s idea. Not mine, lord.” 

The answer was enough to dry whatever scolding words might’ve sprang from their perch on Alfred’s lips, making him turn to eye the pristinely white candles. “Candles are an appropriate gift for any Christian, especially at this time of year when we devote intense prayer to His name.” 

Sihtric reached into his pocket and fingered the two shillings he had on him. “It feels… meaningless to me. I would’ve liked to get him something personal, like an Irish relic or something, lord.” 

“Irish? Curious you should say so,” Alfred quietly turned and paced towards a different aisle, past the expensive relics and treasures, into the dusty section where codexes and scrolls were housed. He didn’t have to look to know that the Dane was following obediently at his heels, perhaps even clinging to him for unasked help. “Several monks from an Irish monastery in Ossory, a small kingdom in Ireland, had just arrived the other day with reliquaries and gifts from their clergyman. Celts, not Saxon, but Christian all the same.” 

As a small ossuary enameled in a bronzed copper opened, Sihtred took a breath at the book cradled in Alfred’s hands. 

Books were foreign to a Dane, for the power of language was in their oral speech rather than the runes they left behind. And when they did write, it was on wood or stones and not parchment. Their entire written language was designed without cursive script, favoring instead sharp lines that could be easily chiseled into wood. But he could appreciate the artistic beauty and laboring pains that went into crafting a book, and this one in particular caught his eye. The cover was one solid sheet of spalted beech wood, the prized timber whittled only after undergoing a painfully long decaying process that left it with meandering black lines and bands of paler, softer wood. To work with the delicate wood was to show unparalleled craftsmanship. And dramatically engraved on it was a large cross with a carved criss-cross design resting on top of a strange, thick ring. 

“The Celtic Cross,” the King said in a hushed tone out of respect for the book’s alluring beauty and elegance. Indeed, even though the cross didn’t have the same meaning to Sihtric, he was awed by the crafter’s facility. “Here. Hold it.” 

The book was slowly passed over to the hesitant warrior, who fragilely held it in his hands for a few seconds before curiosity got the better of him and he carefully thumbed through it. The pages were thick and stiff, but as soft as the furs he left behind in Coccham. And blank. “There’s nothing written in it, lord.” 

Alfred nodded. “Nothing yet. Holy words will be transcribed in it by the clergy here. Or by myself.” 

The more Sihtric inspected the book, the more he wanted it for Finan. It was Irish, decisively Christian, and rich enough to suit a prince. He couldn’t give him a mere candle. Not for a prince. “How much would this cost, lord?” 

“Sixty pages of beaver skin parchment is used in this book, boy. That alone is around six hundred shillings. Add in the master carpenter's wages, cost of the wood, traveling through _Dane_ lands and waters to transport it.” Sihtric didn’t miss the caustic bite on the word aimed at him. “I’d say it's valued around 750 shillings.” He almost smiled at the sickly pale look on the Dane’s face. “But it’s worth much more than that.” 

“Seven… seven hundred and fifty shillings for a book that’s not even written in, lord?” 

The king saw the pained want in the teen’s eyes, but it wasn’t the selfish hunger that other Danes possessed when incensed in the heat of a violent raid. It was the type of longing he saw on the servants when they waited at the palace gates for leftovers following the royal Christmas feast, their empty stomachs clenching from the delicious smells and their eyes watering with desires that they would rarely ever get to sate. It was a broken want from a defeated man knowing that the forces of the world were too cruel and no amount of effort would see him through. 

Alfred averted his eyes respectfully when Sihtric returned the book to his hands, expecting as much. What he wasn’t expecting was the boy to reach up to his neck and slowly yank off his pagan necklace. Thor’s Hammer dangled in the air between them, the light catching on the sterling surface. 

“Would this satisfy the price, lord?”

Though the silver hammer was wrapped in a fraying strip of leather to keep it connected to the necklace, Alfred could see it was a solid silver piece. Still… “What use would the church have for a symbol of your false gods?” The fire was untamed in the King’s insulted tone. He began to put the book back in its ossuary. 

“What of this, lord?”

Bristling and annoyed now at humoring the boy for as long as he did, Alfred took an impatient breath and looked over at the Dane to see him digging into the folds of his leather vest and linen shirt. When his fingers drew back, they pulled a second necklace from the hidden confines of the fabric. And all the anger and frustration fled from the king’s frame the moment his eyes landed on the silver cross hanging from a simple leather string. 

A conspiring, accusatory look narrowed Alfred’s gaze, making Sihtric roll his eyes. “I didn’t steal it. It’s… It was my mother’s, lord.” 

Alfred blinked, taken by surprise at the answer. And he looked at the boy again up and down, as if approaching him like a puzzle and taking in his different attributes with sudden interest. Mathematics and logic were some of his first languages, and looking at the world as though it were a problem to deduce was easy for him. Suddenly, the young warrior’s dark hair and eyes that weren’t quite fitting for a Dane made sense, as did the sadness that so frequently found kindling in his quiet stare. “Your mother was a Saxon.” 

“A Saxon slave, lord.” A minor correction but one Sihtric felt needed to be said. 

The king’s contemplating stare lingered on the young Dane for a few painful moments before flicking to the cross still lifted in the air. A bartering chip for the prized book he wanted as a gift. With a sigh, Alfred carefully plucked the necklace from the air and turned the cross over in his hand a few times, not missing the brief wash of turmoil on the boy. “It’s rather tarnished,” he mumbled in a flat, dejected tone. 

“It’s… I’ve been meaning to get it polished, lord. But it is pure silver from the north.” 

Indeed it was. And though Alfred was mindful to keep his reactions cold and detached, he found the cross to be rather impressive of an item. In the hands of a Dane no less, it was nothing short of a miracle that it wasn’t sold or tossed in with the rest of their pillaging loot. But considering the boy was still a slave, the king was left to ponder if Sihtric even knew the true worth of what lay around his neck for so long. 

“It will need to be cleaned and assessed before I can tell you if it’d be an appropriate trade for the book. But alas, I am generous and it is indeed the time of giving.” 

Sihtric swallowed thickly as the Saxon quietly collected the necklace while gently pushing the priceless - or rather, exceptionally priced - book back into his hands. Its weight suddenly felt heavier, perhaps burdened down by his own guilt. “Lord?” 

Alfred ran his finger over the patina finish on the cross, where hundreds of scars marred the silver’s finish to tell a story of strife and struggle from its previous owner. “Take the book as your gift. I’ll have this cross assessed and apply the funds to the cost of the book. Should any remarkable balance remain, I’ll send you a missive that you’re able to pay through service or money to the church.” 

A troubled look crossed the young Dane’s features as he looked down at the Celtic Cross on the codex. It was regal and noble, befitting his royal lover back in Coccham. “I am not a freeman. It is out of my power to accept a debt, lord. And I would not think to dishonor my lord by assigning the burden to him.” 

Alfred blinked in surprise at the honesty. It would have been easier for the boy had he lied, blindly accepting the gift and worrying about the payment later. “Uhtred need not be involved in this transaction. It is between us.” 

He got what he wanted, he got the book. But he couldn’t muster any sort of happiness in his words. “Thank you, lord.” 

And as he followed Beocca out of the treasury with a gift that he felt deserving of a prince, Sihtric couldn’t help but look over his shoulder mournfully in the direction the king retreated to. In Alfred’s grasp was the only material possession that connected him to his mother. He remembered the nights she would let him hold it, filling his empty stomach with stories from her village, Hocchale. In the hours that he waited for her after his father would drag her from their room, he would trace his finger along the cross's edge, for she always knew to leave it behind when Kjartan demanded her affections, and it gave him the courage and strength she promised him it would. When she was thrown to the dogs and her screams shook the fortress’s walls, he’d clutched the cross so tight in his fist that it pierced the skin and blooded his palm. And hours after the last time Kjartan disciplined him by ordering his men to shame him, he’d stared at the dull silver finish and took a vow to steer his life away from Dunholm and never return. 

And he’d just sold it without a second thought. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to give a small nod at Sihtric's yo-yoing between Christianity and Norse paganism. I won't spoil the show in case a potential season five touches on it, but in the books, Christianity does have an influence with Sihtric. Historically, around this time, Viking paganism was starting to dwindle as the Danes were being converted. There's Norse mythology that is actually sourced to being introduced around this period and is presumed to have been a result of pagan spiritualists integrating some of the Christian stories and traditions they learned. In the next century or two, this conversion happens fairly fast. 
> 
> The western, popular Bible that we know today, NJV (New King James), wasn't developed until much later in the 1600s. During this particular period, the Vulgate Latin Bible was used. Unfortunately, the translations aren't the most flowery and easy to read when translated so for the biblical English quotes, I've done something of a hybrid between the two. However, Beocca's words are a direct Latin quote from Romans 5:3. 
> 
> Onto probably one of the hardest topics to manage: money and cost of things. 
> 
> So, in the show, this is probably one of the most conflicting things. Like, Meredith's bride price is incredibly low for the daughter of land in debt of over 1k shillings for only a 1/10 of its potential profit. That's huge. And she was only worth 33 shillings? Not logical or reasonable. 
> 
> Around this time, money was extremely hard to keep track of and quantify. There were silver pieces (or silver pounds in weight), pounds in currency, shillings, and pence/pennies. Unfortunately, due to the mixture of a bartering economy and people's general lack of mathematics and bookkeeping, the currency was in a near constant state of flux. I was able to find some records of how much certain items generally cost in the Wessex area in Middle Ages era. When determining the cost of Finan's book, I came up with: 
> 
> 600 shillings for 60 pages (120 pences for beaver skin = 10 shillings a page)  
> 8 shillings for one month of master carpenter wages (4 weeks of work at 24 pences a week = 2 shillings a week)  
> 31 shillings for the wood   
> And the rest for transit 
> 
> The conversion that I used was 1 shilling = 12 pence. 
> 
> It is also worth noting that, historically, books were extremely expensive. The printing press was not yet invented, and each book took around 3-4 weeks alone to stretch and lime the parchment. In 1100 AD, one book in Anglo-Saxon England was around 53 shillings. The average laborer earned 40-45 shillings a year. So this was an item of luxury.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THANK YOU everyone for the awesome words and encouragement! Oh my gosh, I cannot tell you how happy they make me to read! 
> 
> Hookay so! This chapter is a wee bit on the short side. I was considering combining it with the next one but it was just too much emotion in one sitting. This chapter is probably the most uncanonical for the characters; I've taken creative liberties with our boys' backgrounds and added a small stepping stone into a potential follow-up story after this one is wrapped up. 
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you enjoy it!

The night before Jol was a bitter, cold one. Just as the sun was chased away from its rightful throne in the sky, plunging Coccham into a frigid evening, a light sprinkle of snow began to fall. And as candles were lit and hearths were stoked inside the sleepy homes, the windows splashed a gentle glow into the impervious weather. 

Finan had spent the better part of the day chiseling away at some chunks of wood. He tried to replicate the animals that Uhtred had told him they considered divine, but his hand was never confident enough in the craft. His failings when building his own home was testament enough that he struggled in all things pertaining to timber, even when it came to providing simple gifts for his pagan lover. 

He didn’t know much about Jol but he knew that traditions and merrimaking were central to keeping the holiday special for them. He knew they’d be selecting the Jol tree tomorrow as a community and the men would labor over chopping it down, stripping it of branches, and carving the appropriate runes into its bark. And he knew that the pagans would find holly, food, fabric, and wood carvings to place in the village’s trees to appease their gods. 

He frowned at the squirrel he just finished. It definitely did not look like a squirrel. 

Sitting in front of the hearth, the Irishman was about to make a grab for another block of wood, this time woodening his resolve to try his hand at making a goat, when the front door opened. A flurry of snowflakes rushed through the doorway in the split second they were welcomed, along with a very cold looking, miserable Dane. 

“Sihtric! You’re back!” 

In the time it took for the young warrior to wrestle with the wind and relatch the door, Finan hastily stowed the herd of six carved animals beneath the kitchen bench he was sitting at. He should’ve known something was wrong when Sihtric said nothing as he faced the closed door for longer than needed. Only the howling wind responded to him, battering into the quaint home as if to warn the Irishman that emotions were amiss. 

“God Almighty, Sihtric… come to the hearth and warm up. Ya don’t want to catch a fever.”

The cloaked teen couldn’t disagree with that, even in his trounced state. The ride from Wintanceaster had been miserable and long, he and Father Beocca not setting out until after breakfast when their horses were properly tended to and filled with religious packs destined for Coccham’s church. And as they rode through the forests and frozen landscapes, Sihtric had hoped the distance between himself and the cross he left behind would numb his pain. But the distance created a canyon that only deepened his sorrow, welcoming a flood of regret to create a rancorous river.

But what was done could not be undone. 

Nodding slowly, he quietly made his way to the fire and unclipped his snowy cloak. A few renegade flakes that managed to stick to his face were now melted, leaving behind small blotches of wetness. Looking into the fire, he didn’t notice the Irishman sit closer to him, but he could sense his lover’s unease. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want the man’s sympathy or concern. And so troubled by his swirl of emotions that he unknowingly allowed the strongest one to take form. “Why didn’t you tell me?” 

Finan almost recoiled as if physically struck by the bitter, acrid words. “I’ll need more specifics than that.” 

The Dane had planned the conversation meticulously, going over it in his head a hundred times during his ride from Wintanceaster. And he thought that he could hold back the rush of anger from spilling out but he was wrong. “A prince! Noble! Did you think that wasn’t worth mentioning? Gods, Uhtred takes every chance he gets to remind people of his birthright. And you… you lied to me!” 

It felt like the walls were closing in on him as the Irishman realized they were both standing. The anger prickled at the younger warrior’s face, creating shadows on his sharp features. “I did not _lie_ to ya,” he growled out dangerously. For that’s what the conversation was; dangerous. He didn’t want to travel down it. Not with Sihtric. “And I didn’t mention it because it wasn’t worth mentioning!” He shook his head and looked to the side. “And it’s still not.” 

“It’s who you are,” the Dane argued. “And I have a right to know that!” 

Finan felt his easy temper raise its hackles. “A _right_? Mary and Joseph, _you_ have no right to lecture me on holding back from telling of the past.” 

Sihtric slammed his mouth shut and felt a chill race down his spine. “I told you that I was born a slave in Dunholm.” 

“Aye, ya did! But you never told me that your bastard for a father treated ya without dignity! That’s something-” 

“What damn difference does it make?!” The scream rose above the fire, its force so loud and scathing that the winds seemed silenced by it. But the ache and hurt inside the Dane was unleashed. “What do you want from me, Finan? You want to exchange stories of our childhoods?! Please! Let me hear how _great_ castle life was while I impress you with stories of being beaten and shamed by my father’s men! Is that what you want?” 

“No,” Finan mumbled defeatedly but didn’t look away from Sihtric. He wouldn’t do that to him. Not when he needed him most. “I want ya to feel safe and trusted with me enough to talk to me, dammit. This… us… isn’t going to work unless we can be honest.” 

It felt like Finan was asking for the keys to Odin’s hall; something so grand and impossible that Sihtric couldn’t possibly deliver. Trust and honesty were fallacies. He was nothing more than the lowest rung on society’s ladder, not privileged enough to own anything beyond the sanctity of his thoughts and prayers. To be forced to give those up felt like he was sacrificing the only shred of decorum he had. And yet, he wanted to divulge everything to his lover. 

And Finan was right - what they had couldn’t survive on falsities and blind spots. Sighing heavily, the young Dane sat back on the bench and nodded slowly. “The last time that my father’s men…” His words drifted off, as did his eyes to avoid the older man’s watchful gaze. “It was right before Tekil was ordered to get Uhtred for him. Tekil was loyal to Kjartan but he wasn’t a bad man. And he hated how Kjartan treated me.” He fought the desire to hesitate in the face of his honesty. “Tekil told me that once he had Uhtred, he would look the other way so I could flee. My father would be too happy about having Uhtred to care about me not returning to Dunholm.” 

Silence stretched between them for a while, though whether it was comfortable or not was disputed. Finan hadn’t ever met Tekil, but he’d heard the stories from Hild and Uhtred about how he cornered and nearly took his Lord’s eye. Perspective at its finest. 

“So no matter what, ya weren’t going back to Dunholm.” 

Sihtric laughed bitterly. “No. I was either going to run, convince Uhtred to take my oath, or die. I was prepared to enter Valhalla.” 

The admittance, the feeble offering of trust, was profound and moving. So much that Finan sat close beside the Dane, took a shaky breath, and unearthed the chapter of his life he swore to keep under lock and key. “I’m exiled from Ireland. Outlawed. As good as dead if I ever step foot in my own damn lands again. I… I didn’t want to say nothing… because when I first met ya I hated ya.” 

The young warrior sent him a look. “Hated me?” 

“Aye,” it was more painful to recite the words than he expected, but Sihtric deserved to know. “In Ireland, the kingdoms aren’t like here. There’s a high king that loosely holds power over smaller kingdoms, but he’s no Alfred. Lacks the ambition and drive. My father’s kingdom is in the north part of the country, a coastal town with two wealthy monasteries.” He smirked darkly. “Ironic - we thought keeping the men of God in our lands would bring us blessings. All it brought were Danes.” 

Sihtric felt his heart sink into his stomach. 

“Some of the kingdoms were fighting against them and others were just paying them coin to sail elsewhere. But the coasts were getting swarmed and the Danes were setting up settlements. Damned prosperous too.” Finan looked into the hearth, watching the flames lick at the riverstones. “I was commander of my father’s armies in the north and my brother oversaw the armies in the south. The Danes, led by some earl named Oleif, heard about the two monasteries and showed up. Me and my brother had different ideas of how to handle them.” 

The fire crackled. “You wanted to fight.” 

Though the teen didn’t word it as a question, Finan nodded all the same and closed his eyes. “Aye. Decades ago, my grandfather and other Ulaid kings won a battle against the bloody Danes, pushing them back. It worked but my brother was convinced the dynasties had broken apart since then. Maybe he was right. But he poured enough honey in my father’s ear to make him believe it. I refused to back down, and had given the orders to send my men to fight the Danes.” 

He paused to see if Sihtric would say anything, but the boy was quiet. Had it been Uhtred, he would’ve tossed in commentary on what he would’ve done, or critiqued the decisions. But the teen wasn’t like Uhtred, and he was talented in the power of silence. 

“My brother intercepted the bloody orders and convinced my father that I was treasonous against his word. That I would turn the army on _him_.” Though he felt Sihtric’s gaze on him, he refused to meet it. He still carried a burden on his shoulders. “Instead of killing me, the bastards exiled and sold me into slavery. And… and when I escaped with Uhtred… when I met ya… I hated ya. First it was because all I saw was a Dane. And for years as I was rowing, I prayed to God to give me the strength to kill every Dane I came across. But then…” 

The Dane felt something in the air change. Maybe it was a warning. “But then?” 

Finan wet his lower lip and looked down at his hands, tracing the grains of his rowing scars with his eyes. “Uhtred told me about Dunholm. And when I told him about Ulaid and Oleif, he… he recognized the name. Oleif Hrutsson from Northrumbria area.” 

A numbness tingled Sihtric’s limbs, almost paralyzing his own lips from quivering the name. “Kjartan Hrutsson. They are-” 

“Brothers.” 

A painful silence swept over them as the numbness claimed purchase on the younger man. 

Finan wasn’t like Sihtric. He didn’t know how to exist in the silence where his thoughts were allowed to roam freely. And he was quick to fill it. “I’m sorry, Sihtric. I should’ve said something but I was afraid that… Christ Almighty, I was afraid that you’d leave or that ya wouldn’t want to speak with me anymore if ya knew.” 

Slowly, as the feeling returned to Sihtric, so too did his thoughts. “You thought that I was like him.” 

Finan ran his hands over his head. “I thought that- well, doesn’t matter much what I thought then. I was wrong.” The Irishman turned more fully towards the young warrior, boldly reaching out to cradle his lover’s face into the curve of his hand. For the briefest of moments, the Dane tensed but melted into the touch a second later. “Forgive me, Sihtric.” 

It was a lot to process in a short matter of hours. And even before weathering the conversation with the Irishman, Sihtric suffered the agony of his guilt for having sold the one possession he had of his mother. It was supposed to be a holiday and time of renewal and growth. But the dark wintery days felt unbearably gloomy. 

And yet… Finan was honest. It was an ugly honesty but rarely was honesty pretty. That’s how lies could be found; they were often sweet where truths were fetid and foul-smelling. They were both vulnerable and naked to each other, their emotional pasts laid out bare, and that was a profound trust he couldn’t ignore. As painful as it was to process, he wasn’t alone. 

“Forgive me for doubting you,” the Dane whispered as he leaned forward into the touch, pressing their foreheads together with a blissful sigh. “I am sorry about your homelands. And… and if this man is who you say he is then I will help you-” 

“No,” the Irishman’s voice was so strong it almost made Sihtric draw back from him. And Finan, perhaps expecting as much, sighed to expel his frustration and reached around to gently hold the back of the Dane’s neck. He wasn’t ready for his lover to pull away yet. “He may be your uncle but ya have no kinship to answer for. That’s not a burden on ya.” 

“But… he might’ve taken your home.” 

“Or my bastard brother did, but it doesn’t matter to me. Let Oleif take the entire bloody island. I have what I need here.” 

Both lost the talent of speech, for words weren’t needed anymore that night. Finan helped Sihtric out of his cloak and weapons and led him towards the ladder stretching up to their loft as the snow continued to fall. 


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, thank you guys so much for the awesome comments and kudos! This story has been a lot of fun writing and I'm a little sad that it's coming to an end. Originally, I planned on having two chapters dedicated to Jol and Christmas, with this one being Jol. However, I just finished writing up the last segment for the story today and it's rather long. So Christmas might get published in two parts. 
> 
> I hope you guys enjoy this chapter!

The next morning brought a renewed chill with the blanketing of pristine pearl snow that embraced the lands. Silvery light yawned across frozen fields and dormant meadows, reflecting its ethereal glow to the heavens where it came from. Morning in Coccham was a blessed time when the animals were as groggy as their owners but eager to meet the day in earnest. The pleasant silence that still covered the lands was as fragile as the ice forming on the river banks, the occasional current tempting it enough to crack but not splinter from its frozen bed. 

“I like this one. It’s… interesting. Different. If I look at it from the right, it looks like a pig. But if I look at it from this side, it’s a dog.” 

If Sihtric wasn’t still sleeping in the loft and if Finan didn’t care so much about not waking him, he would’ve thrown the wooden ladle at Uhtred. But instead he stirred the deep mauve wine with more fervor, making sure to dunk the cloves and combs floating on its surface. “They’re going in a tree, ya bloody arse. Not to some merchant square.” 

Uhtred chuckled as he placed the carved wooden critter back into the basket to join its friends. It wasn’t the most impressive of Jol carvings, but the meaning wasn’t lost on him. It was the first morning of Jol, and with it came a festive heart that filled the Dane’s soul. The morning sun seemed lighter and more welcoming than usual. Or perhaps it was the tender memories of his childhood that made it so. 

“Don’t mess up the mulled wine. That was expensive.” 

Finan grumbled as he dropped another honeycomb into the cauldron resting in the hearth. The day prior, he was surprised when a trader’s boat pulled up to their dock and began unloading heaps of goods; barrels and barrels of rare wine from the east, crates of evergreen garland, colorful ribbons and fabric, sugary sweets and candies, a rainbow of different fruits stored in mason jars, and a variety of chilled meats and game ranging from entire boars to fatty slabs of whale that were brined and salted for preservation. The last time Finan remembered seeing such a spread was during his time in Ireland, when the palace would welcome an assembly of eager merchants parading their wares for the nobles. 

Uhtred took his lordship seriously, but also didn’t waste the opportunity to show off his prosperity and indulgence. Though Saxon-born, he was still every bit a Dane. 

“Remind me why am I making the wine in the first place,” The Irishman grouched into the cauldron as he watched the comb sink to the bottom. Not too long ago Coccham’s lord arrived at his doorstep with an armful of ingredients and a wooden barrel of wine he’d kicked the distance to his home, demanding to borrow his hearth. The contents in the cauldron alone were worth a small fortune; honeycombs collected months ago from beehives in the country, cloves of nutmeg and cinnamon that were worth as much as Finan’s blade, and dried cherries and raisins that were spared being folded in a dessert. 

“Gisela is cooking over our fires. The woman refuses to see reason.” Uhtred sounded insulted. “How are we supposed to sing praises to our gods without drink?” 

Finan arched a brow and glanced at the Dane. “Ya have to be drunk to sing to your gods?” 

“Preferably.” 

The creaking of the ladder made both of them look over in time to see Sihtric climbing down it with a rushed bounce to his step. His hair was rebraided for the day, and while he wore his boots, breeches, and long-sleeved linen undershirt, he didn’t have on the thick leather vest over it. It took all of Finan’s willpower not to grab him and wrap his arms around him as he did hours into the night. The shadow of their argument still echoed among the room, reminding him of their harsh words exchanged. But also reminding him of the tender honesty they shared. 

Barely giving the Irishman more than a passing glance, the young warrior made a beeline for the fire. “ _Kaldr_ , _kaldr,_ _kaldr_ …” 

Finan smirked as he poured the mulled wine into a wooden cup. “ _Kaldr_ … My Danish lesson for the day?” He took a hearty gulp of the spiced beverage. “Damn that’s good.” 

“It means cold,” Sihtric grinned as he plopped himself on the bench closest to the hearth, nodding at Uhtred. “Lord.” His smile widened. “ _Bliðr Jol_.” 

“ _Bliðr Jol_ to you, Sihtric. I would raise a cup to this happy occasion but the lord of this house has not the decency to provide drink for me.” 

Finan tossed a passably clean mug to both of them. “Ya know where the damn cups are.” 

The spirit of the holiday, despite its pagan orientation, had nestled into each of their hearts, Finan included. And he returned the boyish laugh as his lord playfully bumped into his shoulder on the way to the cauldron, filling both his and the teen’s mugs with the heated wine. It was strong and spicy, and would continue to fill their bellies until they could no longer connect thoughts and drunkenness rendered them useless. And as Uhtred handed the mug over to Sihtric and the three gave a sloppy toast, the Danes exchanged a knowing, warm glance. It would be the first of many drinks they’d share that day. 

“I’ve picked out the Jol tree,” Uhtred leaned against the wall. “We’ll need to cut it and prepare it this morning.” 

Though it wasn’t said, Sihtric heard the unspoken words; they needed to prepare the Jol tree so that they could embrace the singing traditions and succumb to drink without worry of cutting themselves with axes. “I’ll help right away, lord. And help decorate the evergreens in the village.” 

Taking that as his cue - especially when his lord sent him a pointed look and not so subtle jerk of his head towards the basket - Finan cleared his throat. “I...erm..I got ya a gift. A… A Jol gift.” A wash of warmth and surprise spread over Sihtric’s face. “I… I know that ya put carvings and the like in trees for your gods. And Uhtred said ya don’t got any of your own so… so I made some for ya.” 

Reaching for the basket, the Irishman quickly passed it over to a still surprised Sihtric and idly watched him stare in amazement at the figurines. “Finan, this is… these are amazing. Thank you. I was just planning on using branches and twigs from other trees. But this is much better.” Finan beamed with pride and love as the young Dane inspected each carving, naming them off: “Dain, the deer that lives in Yggdrasil. Odin’s wolves, Geri and Freki. Gullinkambi the roster and Freya’s boar, Hildisvini.” 

There was a pause and span of silence. 

“What is this one?” 

Finan sighed. “It’s a squirrel.” 

The Dane looked between the carved animal and his lover a few times. “Do squirrels look different in Ireland?” 

Fighting with his laughter, Uhtred almost choked on the spiced wine, his eyes watering in protest. But he managed to swallow down the potent beverage and slap Sihtric and Finan on their shoulders. “It will be Coccham’s first and best Jol. Just wait till you see the feast.” 

Still grinning, his heart feeling the fullest it ever had been, Sihtric looked up. “We have a boar to sacrifice to Frey?” 

Uhtred shrugged. “It’s dead already but I do not think she’ll care. I told the trader to deliver a live one but it died on the way. I consider that out of our control and sacrifice enough.” 

Though part of Sihtric was a little disappointed he wouldn’t be able to take part in the sacrificial rite of the boar, he couldn’t find much to complain about. Not even as Uhtred excused himself and urged the two lovers to hurry in getting dressed to assist him in cutting down the Jol tree. Once their lord was gone, hearing his cheerfully singing voice become more and more distant, Sihtric was halfway turned to Finan before desperate hands found his hips and pulled him into his lover’s lap. 

“Sorry if I woke ya,” the Irishman nuzzled into the young Dane’s neck as his hands rested warmly on his hips. “Happy Jol.” 

Sihtric chuckled lightly as he let his own hands roam his lover’s body. “ _Bliðr Jol_ ,” he corrected gently. “And you did not wake me. The smell of that wine did.” He looked briefly up at the basket of carved animals. “Thank you for the gift, Finan. I know this… this holiday is not yours and-” 

“It is your holiday and important to ya, so it is important to me.” Finan’s hands slowly slipped down the younger man’s hips, cascading over the rounded curve of his backside and gripping hungrily at the dip. 

Closing his eyes, it was tempting for Sihtric to give in but… “Uhtred is waiting for us.” 

“I will be quick.” 

The lustful impatience was there, coupled with the heated press of the older man’s hands into his intimate, sensitive region his lover explored during the night. Even with the layer of cloth from his breeches, Sihtric still shivered in delight at his wanton touch. But alas, his childlike excitement for the holiday won out in the end and he slowly peeled his lover’s hands off of him as he stood. “Later, Finan. I promise you that the wait will be worth it. And if you cannot wait, there’s some leftover oil in the loft you can use.” 

The Irishman didn’t even bother trying to stop the jesting pout from entering his voice as he followed after the Dane. “ _Kaldr_.” 

* * *

The only trees that managed to retain their fullness in the face of winter’s might were the evergreen. Some were clustered together with their full jackets of pine needles brushing against one another, and others stood regally alone among the naked oaks. Selecting the Jol tree was to pick the symbol of winter’s temporary torture, when the days were short and dreary. And the evergreen, embracing a healthy green hue, served to remind the Danes that light would return to them and that their gods had not forsaken them entirely. They only need celebrate and praise their gods heartily and keep focus that soon spring would come to them and bring bountiful harvest. 

In Dunholm, Sihtric had watched his spineless half-brother, his father, and the rest of the freemen enjoy all of the Jol traditions from a distance. When he was young, before Tekil saw to training him and he earned some respect among his warriors, he was purposeless and nothing more than a menial slave. He busied about the fortress cleaning and tending to the men’s needs, refilling tankards, sharpening swords, preparing the meals. But once he hit adolescence, those tasks fell to less capable, expendable slaves. And yet, though he proved to have a natural talent with a blade, the knowledge did little to fully eclipse his slave status. Their society simply didn’t allow it. At the very least, he was given slightly better provisions during the days of Jol and assisted in preparing the festivities. But his participation continued to be painfully remote.

“Are… are you sure, lord?” 

Uhtred grinned proudly up at the soaring evergreen, not seeming to take note to Sihtric’s unease. “Yes, of course. It is perfect. We’ll have more than enough space to put the runes.” 

Even Clapa furrowed his brows as he stared up at the impossibly tall tree. He shifted the axe from one shoulder to the other. “It’ll be next Jol by the time we clear off all the branches, lord.” 

In retrospect, Uhtred should’ve listened and chose a slightly more humble tree to represent the essence of their holiday. Instead he’d given Clapa the order to chop it down while Sihtric, Finan, and several other good Christian men curious on the pagan holiday stood by to help. The Danes were horribly outnumbered in the Saxon village, making Sihtric curious on how joyous of a celebration it would be. But in the end, curiosity won out and the villagers slowly inched their way into the heart of Coccham as a huge tree was dragged in.

Hours passed as the entire village eventually surrounded the tree with axes and tools to cut and strip the trunk of its branches. Danes sat between Christians and soon - with the help of bottomless spiced wine - they forgot the heathen origins of what they were doing. Silence became scarce as laughs and joking banter warmed the chilly village. Intact branches were passed off to the women, who sat among their own table nearby and began the artful process of creating wreaths. The circular shape represented the yearly cycle, while the holly and berries tied into it illustrated the continuing of life in the dark days. It was a symbol of hope and reassurance, that no matter what, life existed year round. 

Luckily, it was only the mid-day meal by the time the tree was primed for the runes. The Saxons, ill-equipped to help and deeming that the boundary of their assistance, respectfully turned their attention to their warmed tankards while the three Danish men took daggers to the enormous tree. 

“That one looks like a little man.” 

Sihtric blew off splintered wood around the rune and smirked at Finan. “At least it’s easy to understand. Unlike your Gaelic.” 

The Irishman laughed as he shoved the mug of wine into the young Dane’s free hand. “Ya have to put these runes in the whole bloody tree?” 

Wine was unfamiliar to Sihtric. In Dunholm, they had ale and nothing else. It wasn’t until he became Uhtred’s man that he was introduced to the incredibly potent alcohol that was deceptively sweet like juice. In comparison, ale was weak and stale in flavor, and the teen’s tolerance fought to keep up. “Yes. And then we chop enough off to burn each night and save one piece for next year.” He nodded towards a particularly giant wreath Gisela was labouring over, its size so massive it had to be formed on the ground. “That one we’ll light on fire and throw down a ravine to wish for the return of the sun.” 

It was all strange for Finan. And if he were a better Chrstian, maybe it would’ve bothered him more. Father Beocca, Hild, and Osferth had been keeping their distance as the day stretched into the afternoon but the sounds of jovial, loud singing eventually even lured them out from the church. 

Once the tree was thoroughly decorated in a pageant of runes, the women retreated into the longhouse to oversee cooking the start of many feasts to come. The first night was always the most celebrated, and typically revered with the sacrifice of the boar. Gisela had stared heavily at Uhtred when he showed her the very dead, frozen boar, but sighed in resignation to make due with what she was given. As privileged as her position was as Coccham’s Lady, she was still a Danish woman at heart and took pride at maintaining her household. 

Finan didn’t exactly follow Sihtric’s drunken explanation of the Jol goat, and made a mental note to press his lover for a more thorough explanation once he sobered up. Uhtred, Clapa, and Sihtric wrapped goat skins around their shoulders and, at first, traveled door to door in Coccham singing Danish songs. The words and meaning were lost on the Irishman but the melody and out of tune nature of the drunken men was amusing enough. And the villagers were once again seduced by the infectious celebration and carousel. A pagan holiday it might’ve been but what could it hurt to take part in the activities without honoring the traditions? Certainly that wasn’t heathen or sacrilege. 

They encouraged the trio of drunken, singing Danes by refilling their tankards with more ale and wine. And it didn’t take but another round of singing before Finan joined in, followed by a handful of farmers. The Irishman was graced with a stalwart tolerance to alcohol thanks to his cultured palate tempered on Irish drink. The wine was strong but didn’t hit him nearly as hard as it did Sihtric. 

By the time the sun was preparing to retire for the day, crawling towards its blanket nestled on the horizon, the Dane teen struggled to walk a straight line as he followed everyone else into Uhtred’s warm longhouse. The aromas were unlike anything he’d experienced; exotic spices mixed with rich meats and sweetened desserts still baking. All of it made his head spin even worse. And Uhtred, chuckling in amusement at the young warrior’s intoxicated missteps, had quietly come up next to him. Had the boy been sober, his natural jumpiness would’ve alerted him to the approach, but in his state he didn’t even notice. 

“Are you well, Sihtric?” Uhtred carefully took the teen’s elbow to steady him. Finding Finan already sitting at the great table packed full of cheerful villagers, he caught the Irishman’s eye and nodded pointedly down at the stumbling Dane. 

“I am, lord. Thank you… for today. For-” Sihtric abruptly broke off as he turned suddenly, almost falling over in his hasty maneuver. Uhtred’s grip tightened to hold him upright. “For everything. For taking my oath and not killing me, for treating me better than… than _him_ … for treating me like a person. A living, real person. For… for killing Kjartan-” 

“That was Ragnar, technically.” 

“-for allowing me to find happiness! You are a great, great man, lord. I would like to toast for you.” 

Uhtred grinned warmly. “You are drunk.” 

“But not wrong, lord.” 

“Perhaps not,” if the boy wanted to use his drunken happiness to sing his praises, Uhtred wasn’t going to stop him. “Let’s get some food in you.” 

It was a small accomplishment to coerce Sihtric’s gangly limbs over the bench without him falling backwards. Finan received him with a buzzed chuckle of his own, making Uhtred’s stare linger between the two suspiciously. But once the rest of the hall had settled down enough and the procession of food was introduced, Uhtred stood at the head of the table and lifted his mug in toast. To appease the entire hall, he first started in English, singing praise to the villagers' efforts over the past few months in turning a lonely meadow into a thriving town. It was neutral enough to avoid Beocca, Hild, and Osferth’s glowering looks, but inspiring to earn cheers and applause. As his gaze swept between the Danes in the hall, his tongue switched to Danish as he gave thanks for their devotion to their gods in celebrating the end of one year and welcoming the renewed start of another. 

As much as he hated to admit it, he saw then the logic in Alfred’s wish. That night, Coccham was the living embodiment of the king’s vision for an undivided kingdom, where unity didn’t stop at what lineage flowed in someone’s blood. Under his unified plan, everyone - Saxon and Dane alike - would be English. Some cursed and spluttered at the thought; ‘Danes and Saxons are forever enemies with nothing in common’, they’d spewed. But as Uhtred took his seat, he saw exactly how it would work. And how easily it worked when malice and superficial hatred burgeoned from faulty assumptions were cast aside. 

He wouldn’t do it that night, but later in the week, when men needed to take a small respite from drink to allow hangovers to cure, Uhtred would wear the heavy furs to play Old Man Winter’s role. It was a role that his own father had played in their village during his youth, visiting door to door to bring candies and sweets to the children and indulge in the ale given to him by their parents. Though it was done to honor the belief that Odin would dress as a mortal to walk among men during the celebrations, Uhtred felt confident that the Christians would see past the pagan meaning, much like they did the Jol tree and celebration of the goat, or _Jolbock_ , when they sang from home to home. 

Tossing a chunk of the seasoned whale meat into his mouth, an incredible delicacy that traveled from the sea and through Lunden, Uhtred watched in amused interest as Finan and Sihtric leaned near one another, whispering with gleeful looks on their faces. But those gleeful looks took on more serious, smoldering expressions in a quick matter of seconds. And for a horrible moment, Uhtred worried that something was amiss between the lovers, brought on by fuzzy intoxicated thoughts and loose tongues. They came from two worlds that couldn’t be more different; different faiths, different cultures, different languages. But they found love and longing in those differences, turning what many considered diverging attributes into the kindling of their affections.

Did Finan insult the Jol celebrations? Or did Sihtric speak ill of Christianity? 

Uhtred blinked as the situation suddenly laid itself out. No, those weren’t churning looks of anger or resentment between the two warriors. It was longing. Impatient, anguished longing. 

Sihtric was the first to get up, his coordination returning to him thanks to food, and Finan wasn’t far behind. Whatever words the Dane told him had a lasting effect, for the Irishman’s eyes were almost as wide as his mouth was dropped open. The teen led the way towards the longhouse’s door, trying to look as casual as possible, but the desiring looks he occasionally sent over his shoulder to the entranced Irishman shattered his facade. 

The feast wasn’t over and they still had dessert to enjoy, but Uhtred didn’t stop them. Instead he smirked back as the young warrior strode past. “ _Bliðr Jol_ , Sihtric.” 

His lord knew he wouldn’t be returning. “ _Bliðr Jol_ , lord.” 

Looking from one lover to the next as they passed, Uhtred nodded at the Irishman. “Enjoy the rest of your evening, Finan.” 

“Oh, I will, lord. I will. And I’ll enjoy tomorrow morning, too.” 

As he turned back to his meal, intent on enjoying the ambiance of the celebration with the love of his life at his side, he paused midchew as he heard the longhouse door shut and then something very loud, decidingly _someone_ get slammed against it. 

They didn’t even make it to their house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What happened with the necklace and Finan's book? You'll find out next time!


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much again for the comments and kudos! I excitedly read them aloud and dance a little. Thank you guys again for being so supportive with this story. 
> 
> This chapter is a bit on the long side. There is one more chapter after this and then the story is complete! I'm already starting on a sequel and while I don't want to give away TOO many spoilers I will say that it has to do with Ireland. Gaelic Ireland during this period is SO rich with history that it more than deserves a spotlight.

The days marched onwards in their natural procession; one turning into two and two turning into three until finally Christmastide Eve was upon the village. During those days that passed, the citizens of Coccham evolved from being awkward acquaintances with Jol to intimate friends with the merry celebrations. By the second day, Beocca was joining in with the drunken singing routine and helping Sihtric with placing Finan’s carved animals in the evergreens closest to their home. By the third day, even Hild and Osferth couldn’t deny themselves finding fun in some of the festivities. Though they fervently prefaced that they were including themselves strictly out of faithless loyalty to their lord, their smiles and laughter came easy and fast. 

But all of that changed on Christmas Eve. 

Sihtric had woken first that day and silently untangled Finan’s arms from his waist, taking painful measures to be quiet in wrapping furs around his nakedness and creeping down the ladder. The night before, as he did the first night of Jol, he’d placed out a handful of hay on the hearth for Odin’s eight-legged steed, Slepnir, and left the front door unlatched much to Finan’s chagrin. It was a well known tradition that Odin would visit his devout followers and reward those who showed kindness to his horse by leaving behind sweet cakes and treats. And so far, his deed had shown raving success. Despite having tasted the fine flavors of battle and proving himself to be a fierce warrior, each morning brought about the dawn of an eager, childlike excitement to see what Odin had brought him.

Two almond honey cakes curiously wrapped in the same burlap Uhtred kept his grain in rested on the hearth, in the spot the hay once rested. It was gone but Sihtric had a fairly good feeling his lord’s horses were well fed that morning. 

“The bastard should leave behind some ale if he’s going to be breaking into my home.” A pause. “Or at least knock so I’m not in the middle of fucking ya.” 

Tightening the furs at this waist, the Dane grinned as he turned to find a half-dressed, sleepy Finan climbing down the ladder. “Are we talking about Odin or Uhtred?” 

“Both.” After grabbing some dried pieces of wood, mindful not to touch the special bundle from the Jol log resting on the side, the Irishman tossed it into the hearth to create a fire. “Almond again? Tell him to bring the date cakes. I enjoyed those.” 

Smirking, Sihtric placed the pastries on the table to be consumed later, when the mulled wine was heated again, and snaked his arms around his lover’s waist from behind. “I cannot tell Odin what to bring me. It doesn’t work like that.” He sighed in contentment at the older man’s warmth that filled him physically and otherwise. “But it would be so much easier if there was a way too.” 

Once the fire was crackling with life, Finan turned around and embraced the younger warrior in his arms, not missing the chill still chasing the Dane’s skin. “Call it a gift of prophecy but I have a hunch that if ya tell Gisela what ya like, it’ll end up on the hearth tomorrow morning.” 

“Perhaps so.” 

One of Finan’s hands slowly drifted down his lover’s naked side, caressing the skin softly before stopping at the fur knotted around his hips. “Ya know, it’s Christmas eve tonight. I’ll be late to the feast. I have prayer and liturgy in the church.” His digits teased at the fur. “And ya should know that it’s frowned upon to fuck during Christmastide.” 

“It would be rather heathen of me to tempt you then.” Sihtric knew where Finan’s line of thinking was going. And while he wanted to throw himself into the whimsical abandon of lovemaking, the reminder of the Christian holiday made a small worry pound in his head. The priceless Celtic book was hidden in the cellar, having been moved from its original spot in the stables. The power of drink and celebration allowed Sihtric a powerful distraction to forget about the atrocious mistake he made, how he willingly left behind his mother’s beloved cross in hopes of impressing his noble lover. “I have a Christmas gift to give you later.” 

A wolfish smile widened on the Irishman’s lips. “I’m liking it already.” 

The wall collided roughly with the Dane’s back, encouraging a pleased groan to inch up his throat. The sound was small, but the perfect teasing for all the other delicious noises the young warrior could make. As compassionate as the two men were, patience was not a virtue they included in their intimacy. Feeling the hands hungrily rip the furs away from his waist and welcome a rush of cold air to nip at him, Sihtric barely had time to struggle with the front of his lover’s breeches. Their movements were jerkish and uncoordinated with want, and the Dane just only freed his lover from the cloth confines when strong hands painfully pushed him up against the wall and impatiently lifted him from under his knees. 

There was no preparation or easing into his taking besides the slickness that still remained from their intimacy hours ago. Scrambling his arms around his lover’s scarred back, the Dane desperately sought to gain purchase as a crushing tempo began, slamming him against the wall with each sharp pitch of his lover’s hips. 

And just as the chaotic rhythm found its settled pace, the front door burst open. 

“ _Bliðr Jo-_ Well, good morning to you both as well.” 

The movement suddenly stopped as both lovers froze, but unlike before when Coccham’s lord interrupted their intimacy, there was a shared groan of frustration and not the startled movements of fear. And unlike before, Finan didn’t jump back and free Sihtric to make himself decent, either from an arrogant intention of proving he was due his own wants in his own home, or just to spite Uhtred. 

Sihtric wouldn’t have put it past the Irishman to just continue despite the intrusion. And for a second, he thought that’s exactly what Finan intended on doing as he continued to remain pinned between the wall and him, legs pressed up and framing the older man’s sides perfectly. 

“God _bloody_ damnit, Uhtred!” Finan punched the wall beside Sihtric’s head. He didn’t even flinch. “Would it kill ya to _knock_?! Or wait till we’re finished?!” 

Uhtred leaned against the doorframe, nonplussed. “That is not very Christian of you.”

Craning his head back against the wall, Sihtric looked up at the broad ceiling beams, remembering how he installed them. “ _Bliðr Jol,_ lord. Is there anything we can help you with this morning?” 

“Well, now that you ask…” The teen felt a feral warning grumble through Finan’s torso. But once the hilarity from Uhtred’s voice dried up, so too did their frustrations. “Riders were spotted on the road. Get your clothes and weapons and head to the gates.” 

Their relationship carried a duality to it; they were brothers-in-arms and soldiers in their lord’s household, but also the fiercest and fearless of lovers. They took both roles with earnest consideration, letting their commitment to neither dip or flounder. And at Uhtred’s word, they immediately abandoned any hope of salvaging their morning together as they shared a grave look and Finan stepped back to allow the young Dane to his feet. 

It was not the morning either wanted. 

* * *

Sihtric knew that dark look on Uhtred’s face. It was the look he had when he was deciding whether to separate a man’s head from his body, or if running him through with his sword was the fastest solution. It was a dangerous look that many men saw seconds before they were sent to whatever afterlife they held near to their hearts. 

And Alfred’s herald was oblivious to the threat that he faced. 

They had raced to the gates clad in full armor and blades at their hips only to find the riders bore the familiar tabards of Alfred’s coat of arms and the same stiff necked demeanor as the royal himself. A dozen riders in total, they’d left the night before to deliver good tidings from the king to the citizens of Coccham and gifts from the church. Sihtric and Clapa shared confused, unnerved looks while the herald and two priests dismounted, and began a sprinkling of water around the center of Coccham. Perhaps word had reached the palace of the pagan festivities that were ongoing and his herald wished to see it for himself. 

That much Sihtric could’ve stomached, a threat with a foe that was able to be looked at in the eye. But he stood entirely bewildered as the herald - now having drawn a crowd - proceeded to read King Alfred’s personal blessing and good tidings to the “good Christians” of Coccham.

A few times during the reading, Sihtric had placed his hand on the pommel of his sword and glanced Uhtred’s way, but his lord gave a subtle shake of his head. It was painful but it didn’t warrant a fight. 

“And, finally, the good King bears gifts for Coccham’s church in the holy name of our trinity and Lord.” The herald nodded at one of the riders to untie several bags hanging from his steed. “As well… I bear a personal message from the King.” 

Uhtred sighed and shifted his weight. “So all of that stuff you read wasn’t personal?” 

The herald’s hand stilled for a moment as it dove into his heavy surcoat dusty from travels. “I… erm… of course, lord. That was indeed our Lord King’s most cherished and humblest of prayers for this Christian village. Personal words, of course.” He pulled out a small package no larger than his palm, wrapped in thick calves skin and stamped with a wax seal bearing Alfred’s royal emblem. He hastily read the cursive script on the front. “A letter for Master Uhtred’s household.” 

Sihtric felt a sickness grip at his stomach. 

“ ‘Master’ Uhtred?” The Dane arched a brow, his patience thin already at the spectacle he was forced to endure. “I am Lord Uhtred.” 

The herald laughed jovially as if sharing in some joke with the irked lord. But when Uhtred didn’t laugh back, his own died down. “A letter for your household means it-it is a letter for your slave or servant,” the Saxon explained, not having prepared to do so and veering off from his recital unnerving him. “As its Master, letters are directed at you, my fine lord.” 

The sickness grew and Sihtric looked down. 

“Its? _He_ has a name, you arselicking-” The familiar sound of steel being drawn from its sheath didn’t even make the teen look up. His pathetic rank was reaffirmed even in the face of the most generous of holidays. He was nothing. 

“Uhtred! He’s not worth it!” 

Finan’s voice and the sound of fabric shuffling at least coerced Sihtric to shift his stance some. It was strange, alien almost, to have Uhtred referred to as a Master. In all rights, that’s precisely what his role was to him. He’d given himself over to the Saxon-born Dane, swore his oath and fervently begged to serve him. The laws were plain and uncomplicated; any child born to a slave woman inherited her status regardless of the father. A slave was as glorified as a piece of property; genderless and without discerning identity. And every piece of property had an owner. A master. 

If Uhtred had his way he would’ve at least inspired fear into Alfred’s court minstrel by drawing his sword, but his second-in-command had done his due diligence to stop the flow of a fight before it could gain an unstoppable current. One hand fisted the front of the herald’s tabard, hating the feel of the exquisite, fine fabric caught between his fingers, while his other ripped the letter from the Saxon’s loose, frightened grip. “ _He_ ,” Uhtred growled between clenched teeth at Alfred’s man. Damn him, too. Damn him for sending a herald to sing his praises. It was nothing more than an insult; Alfred knew Uhtred was a pagan. “And if Alfred wants to send a personal message, tell him to leave his palace next time. You have until I turn back around to get out of my sight.” 

Sihtric heard the words but they still didn’t make him abandon the submissive tilt of his head forward. A slender figure that stopped beside him and rested a gentle hand on his shoulder did, though. “Lady,” the quiet word barely scraped past his lips. And though he could feel her powerful gaze on him, he dropped his stare back down at her narrow shadow. 

But the woman’s whispered, sharp tongue made him blink. “Look up. Do not lower your eyes to that man.” 

Gisela was a force to be reckoned with, even with being a woman. There was a contagious strength in the way she held herself, her spine straightened in the face of the world demanding she bend a knee. She moved with a deadly grace Sihtric had come to recognize as the same grace he employed with his blades: quiet, precise, and incredibly fatal. He could tell she was the daughter of an Earl not from the fine clothes she wore but the courage in her voice. 

It was customary that women - especially Danish women - be the leaders of their household. They were the architects and masters of everything that happened within the walls and under the roof. And, traditionally, slaves fell under their jurisdiction. When Uhtred took her as his wife and she established their household, Sihtric remembered the day he awkwardly approached her, asking his place and what she needed done. And for half the day, still clad in his armor and leather bracers, she had him wash dishes until she could no longer hold a serious expression as he dropped more dishes than he cleaned. She’d laughed as she shooed him out of the longhouse and told him his place, no matter what, was at Uhtred’s side and not hers. 

And while Gisela was by all legal rights Sihtric’s owner as well, she owed so much to him. She was with Uhtred thanks to him and his loyalty. When she looked at him, her motherly nature emerged and she fought to hold back the tenderness that’d soften her chestnut gaze. 

Uhtred waved the villagers to return to whatever it was their Christian holiday required of them and closed the gap between him and Sihtric. 

“What does Alfred want with you?” The words came out more scathing than intended, Uhtred’s annoyance and anger at the herald spilling over when addressing the clearly shaken teen. And having seen the young Dane with his head bowed obediently only fanned his frustrations more. Movement out of the corner of his gaze told him Finan had followed close by, his own curiosity piqued. But when Sihtric hesitated, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he struggled to find the words, Uhtred’s patience suffered. “Answer me!” 

“Lord! You will watch your tone. Do not forget that it is Jol.” 

Had Gisela been born a man, she would’ve been destined for leadership. Her curt, quiet words rivaled the winter wind’s coldness, but had the same cooling effects on Coccham’s lord. He looked from the solemn teen stiffened from the shout over to his wife, who stood protectively close to him with a challenging brow arched upwards. 

“Sihtric... “ he sighed and lifted up the letter for the young Dane to grab. “Do not get yourself involved in Alfred. I speak from experience - once you start, it becomes a web that you can never get out of. Whatever it is he wants, tell him no and be done with it. _That_ is an order.” 

The weight of the situation barreled down on Sihtric as he hastily grabbed the heavy letter from Uhtred and quickly stowed it into his vest. It was thick, the calf skin so dense and finely tailored that he intended on keeping it for something else. Tucked inside was undoubtedly Alfred’s decision on whether his mother’s cross had satisfied the exorbitant price for the Celtic book. And if not, what was due and expected of him in terms of service or coin would likely be listed. 

He couldn’t show Uhtred. But at the same time, he couldn’t hold it from him. And there were only so many people in the village who could read. 

“Yes, lord,” he mumbled loyally and began the painstaking process of preparing himself for how he’d explain the mess of a situation he created, authored by his own anxiety over living up to his noble lover. At the time, he’d allow fear to blind and guide him but now regret served him uselessly. “Lord?” Uhtred paused from his trek towards his longhouse with his wife and looked back at him questioningly. “If it would not be too much trouble, I would like to speak with you and Beocca before the feast tonight.” 

Perhaps Uhtred knew then. Or maybe he read the young warrior well. For he looked a few times between Sihtric and Finan before nodding once. “I do not see that being an issue.” The stressful nature of the morning had passed for him, and Coccham’s lord sighed to try to expel any lingering nerves with a quiet laugh. “Now, put this out of your heads. It is Jol and… and Christmas eve.” He looked physically ill to give the Christian holiday acknowledgment. “Go back to your house, both of you. I’ll not have Finan hold a grudge against me for interrupting his morning. Despite how unChristian that would be.” 

Finan chuckled lowly and came up close behind Sihtric. Most of the villagers had returned to busying about their day; they’d be unable to complete laborious work once their pious observation was in full swing, for their faith prohibited it. “Happy Jol and Christmas to ya too, lord.” 

And while Sihtric wanted to bask in the freedom of their laughs and mirth, he simply couldn’t. For them all, the threat and stress had left with the herald. But for him, the letter in his vest burned in the worst of ways, but a deserving way. That night, when he’d bring the letter to Beocca to read in front of him and Uhtred, he’d tell his lord all about his ill-planned decision to trade the cross for the book. If anyone had an idea for how to get the cross back, Uhtred would be the one. And in the shattering event that Alfred’s missive demanded him to repay a significant amount of coin, his loyalty to Uhtred demanded he be honest and forward. 

For now, though, he had a gift to give. 

* * *

Some believed that the afterglow of sex was an ethereal time. As lovers fought to catch their breaths, it was a time when malicious spirits would slip between gasping lips. Others believed it was a time when a heavenly presence would bask the couple in the aftermath of their devotional love. For Sihtric, he didn’t believe either. It was a special time shared between him and Finan, when he laid his head against the Irishman’s sweaty chest and counted the steady beats of his calming heart. It was a time when the world stopped existing and all that mattered was the intune nature of their breaths, or the way that Finan’s smell now eclipsed his own. 

And yet, even in the whimsical bliss of it all, entangled in a mess of limbs and furs, Sihtric couldn’t forget the guilt that stalked him. The book hidden in the cellar now had an accomplice: the letter still tucked in his leather vest thrown haphazardly to the side in the midst of their intimacy. 

“Ya should come to the liturgy tonight with me.”

Smirking faintly at the suggestion, Sihtric casually traced the pad of his finger along the cross resting on his lover’s chest. “I am a pagan. There is nothing for me there.” 

“There’s me.” He felt Finan try to push some stubborn pieces of hair back into his messed up braids. “And ya might be half-Dane, but you’re also half-Saxon.” 

The words couldn’t have missed their mark more fantastically. Instead of consoling the worry in the teen, they spurned at him painfully. “Perhaps, but I know nothing of your god.” He shoved himself up to his elbows to level a dubious look at the older man. “And the thought of giving up Valhalla and fighting in a great battle for golden gates and angels does not sound that great.” 

And while Sihtric welcomed a jesting tone to his words, Finan was serious. “But you’d gain seeing your mother again… and me.” His hand tenderly grazed the sharp curve of the Dane’s cheek to cup his face gently. “I want to be with ya forever, Sihtric. In this life and after.” 

If he had his mother’s cross, he would’ve grabbed it for strength. Thor’s Hammer felt too cold. “What you are asking for…” 

“Is a lot, I know.” 

But not impossible. And maybe it was that easy revelation, that small slice of possibility, that urged Sihtric to his feet in a second. Talking about it was fearful enough. He was a fierce Dane and a proud pagan, no matter the mixed blood that flowed in his veins. His mother might’ve been a Saxon who continued to pray to her god and keep faithful to her ways, but Sihtric had been shoved into the culture of Dunholm. The Æsir were taught to him since he could speak, gloried and elevated above the Christian faith that his father’s warriors mocked and cursed at. 

He couldn’t give Christianity a consideration even if he wanted to. He wasn’t even of the faith and he’d already committed a grave sin by selling his mother’s cross. 

“Sihtric? Are ya alright?” 

“I want to give you your gift,” the teen blurted out as he grabbed at the top fur on the bed and wrapped it around himself. The fire in the lower level of the house was still aflame and bellowed a gentle heat up to their loft. “Stay here. I hid it in the cellar.” 

The trip down both sets of ladders into the cellar and back up wasn’t nearly as long as Sihtric had hoped it’d be. He remembered where he hid the delicately wrapped bundle tucked between several crates of smoked scallops and brined herring. It felt different than when he first took it from Alfred, when he was anxiously keen to appease his noble lover and looked at the book as a lifeline. Now it was only a source of pain. 

“Ya didn’t have to get me anything,” Finan chuckled as he pushed himself up to sit in the bed and leaned his back against the wall. “This better be worse than the animals I carved ya or else I’m going to feel guilty.” 

“I’m not sure it’s possible to make it any worse than the animals,” the joke came out nervous and jittery as the teen quickly joined his lover in the bed and pushed the linen-wrapped book into the Irishman’s waiting hands. In his mind, he’d rehearsed all of the opulent ways he wanted to present it, each choice filled with a different flavoring of splendor appropriate for the luxurious gift. And yet now all he wanted to do was be free of it. “I… I hope you like it.” 

Sihtric looked down as the Irishman slowly unwrapped it, casting the piece of linen - a cloth used to clean a sharpened blade - to the side. He missed the astonished look on his face and tried to ignore the awe-filled gasp. He’d had hoped seeing Finan enjoy the gift would’ve filled the emptiness that existed in his heart, but it only hollowed it more. 

“Sihtric… how did you… where did you…” 

The young Dane glanced up with a gentle smile to watch Finan slowly run his calloused fingers over the immaculately carved Celtic cross, his face washed over in disbelief. “It is Irish, yes?” 

“Aye, it is. But…” He looked up then, staring at the teen for several profound seconds. And under the beam of his pure adoration, Sihtric almost forgot what he gave up for the gift. “How did ya get this? Did ya…” 

That managed to earn a small laugh from the teen. “No, I did not steal it, if that’s what you’re wondering. I… I bartered with Alfred. That’s what the letter was about this morning.” He tried to keep his tone light and airy, as if nothing was out of sorts. “Do you like it?” 

“I love it! It’s… well, now I feel bloody guilty for failing to make some damn wood animals for ya.” The Irishman ran his hand over the smooth, clean pages ripe for writing “I can teach ya to read and write with this. In Latin or English, whichever ya prefer.” 

“Only if you’re a better penman than you are at building.” He smirked lightly at the jest but the Irishman didn’t let it last for long before he reached forward, grabbed the Dane, and pulled him into a gentle kiss so different from their usual feral embraces. It was tender and warm, compassionate and loving, slow and sensual. And Sihtric nearly melted into the heat from his lover. “Happy Christmas, Finan.” 

Despite the book’s ungodly worth, it was dropped to the side as Finan laid back to the bed, pulling his Dane lover with him. And outside, the snow continued to fall. 

* * *

The rest of the day was a hazy mix of laying in bed, looking over the book with Finan, and expertly dodging any prying questions the Irishman attempted to lodge his way regarding the barter. Sihtric was quickly earning a reputation as an impressive swordsman, using his lithe form in fatal blade dances to avoid his foe’s might, and he employed a similar tactic when evading any and all questions regarding the book’s barter. And while he draink in Finan’s exploding happiness, the distraction was only temporary. He couldn’t ignore the letter from Alfred much longer, and wouldn’t betray Uhtred’s trust in him by concealing the debt. 

The herald was right - he was an ‘it’. A nothing with nothing to his name, and any debt would have to include his master. If the amount was significant, he resolved himself to be honest with Finan about the cost of his gift. 

A cost that he now realized wasn’t even needed. Noble by birth, perhaps, but Finan expected nothing from Sihtric besides his love and adoration. 

“You did _what_?” 

“Let him explain, Uhtred. I’m sure there… there is a sound explanation. There always is.” 

Standing in the back storeroom of Uhtred’s longhouse while Gisela and other village women scurried about the main hall to prepare for that night’s feast, Sihtric looked everywhere but his Lord’s face as he retold the entire exchange with Alfred, how he sacrificed his mother’s beloved cross without a second thought in exchange for the luxurious, lifeless book. But the sacks of grain and wheat, barrels of salted fish, and lines of drying herbs met his guilty stare with a cold shoulder, offering him little empathy. 

He swallowed mournfully at Beocca’s words. “I wish I had a better explanation. Or more of an explanation. But I wasn’t thinking, lord.” 

“That much is apparent,” Uhtred snapped. “You are forbidden from leaving Coccham without me. Clearly your judgment is poorer than I gave you credit for.” 

Beocca slipped his finger beneath Alfred’s wax seal. It was tough, made from Wessex’s finest beeswax that cost the price of a laborer’s monthly salary. “We don’t yet know how much the boy is indebted. Perhaps Alfred has been lenient. A silver cross is highly valued for the church, after all.” 

“Alfred is many things, but generous is not a word that comes to mind.” 

Beocca stiffened. “He is still a Christian, Uhtred! And a good man.” 

Uhtred tossed his head back to laugh bitterly. “He takes and takes and makes demands all in the name of his _god_. And what you give is never good enough for his god. He will always want more. Do you not see, Sihtric? You will never be free from him now. Or me, rather. Because while _you_ cannot be held responsible for this debt, I can.” 

Sihtric felt sick and tried to swallow the lump of emotion building in his throat. A moisture prickled in his eyes. “I know. And… and I will accept any punishment, lord.” 

“Being indebted to Alfred is punishment enough. Believe me,” Uhtred grumbled heatedly. But the anger wasn’t directed at the sorrowful looking boy. It was a fear for him, a grieving for the freedom the teen would never have. Sighing slowly, Coccham’s lord took a step towards the young Dane, frowning slightly when he tensed in preparation for the blow that would never land. “You sold your mother’s cross - forget the fact that it is Christian, but it was _hers_. You sold that, Sihtric. For a book that you cannot even read. For a man that you have only just begun taking to your furs.” 

“I… I know, lord. And I regret it!” Indeed, Uhtred could see the remorse spilling from his eyes when the water that collected there didn’t. “I was so… I was worried that Finan wouldn’t like what I could afford because of his… because he’s noble and I’m just… and I was stupid, lord. I will swear an oath to Alfred if it means releasing you from any obligation.” 

Uhtred frowned. “You will do no such thing. I will deal with Alfred and, gods allowing, get you back your cross if the arse hasn’t already given it to some priest-” 

“ ‘Favour is deceitful, and beauty is vain. But a woman that feareth the Lord, she shall be praised’.” Both Danes snapped their attention to Beocca, who had cracked open the wax seal while they were talking and now read from Alfred’s letter held between two tightly fisted hands. “‘Honor her for the fruit of her hands, and let her own works praise her into His gates’. Proverb 31. Beautiful passage.” The priest glanced up briefly at the silence to find a captive audience. He resumed reading. “ ‘Sihtric, the holy book that these words come from is the same book that speaks of the great sacrifice a parent makes for their child. But this sacrifice is eternal and everlasting. In my mind, I hope the Celtic book has been received well by its new owner. But in my heart, I know that your cross has no place in my church’s treasury.’ ” 

Beocca’s right hand opened slightly and a familiar object dangled from his fingers, the early evening light catching on it and creating a sharp glimmer. It was the same glimmer Sihtric had come to recognize as warmth and safety when his mother would light their sole tallow candle in their small room, her smile full and endearing. The same glimmer he looked forward to seeing after a difficult day of training under Tekil’s demanding gaze. The same glimmer that captured the essence of his mother’s radiance even after she had departed their world, reminding him that he was never alone. The same glimmer that gave him strength and hope when he didn’t think it was possible. 

But that glimmer was brighter than before. It had been polished and washed. 

“ ‘Take this as my gift to you on the holiest of days and a reminder that your heart only wept when you offered me one of your two necklaces. It was in that moment that I understood your pain. Your mother has given you the greatest of gifts that anyone can give: the path to His word. Do not dishonor her memory again. Your debt to me is fulfilled.’ Signed Alfred, King of Wessex.” 

A silence rolled between the trio as Sihtric stepped forward, quickly reaching for the cross still hanging from Beocca’s fingers. The teen had heard so much about Alfred, the tone flipping from praise to curses depending on who he was talking to, that he was only then able to begin making his own perception of the Saxon monarch. He was a holy, merciful man driven by his compassion for his faith. But in that compassion did he find benevolence for his fellow man. Quickly placing the necklace on, Sihtric let out a small sigh of relief at the affection that returned to him, his heart created whole once again. 

“For what it is worth, I still think he is an arse.” But the warmth in Uhtred’s voice suggested otherwise. 

Beocca’s smile couldn’t be wider. “I take my leave, gentlemen. I fear that I am nearly late for the liturgy I’m supposed to be giving tonight. And that would be very unseemly of me.” But as the priest began to leave, he hesitated momentarily in the doorway before casting a glance over his shoulder at the Danes. “Happy Christmas.” 

Uhtred smiled politely and gave a half-hearted ‘Happy Christmas’ in reply and fought not to add their Jol tidings. And he waited until he saw Beocca meander his way through the great hall, weaving between the dozens of chairs and women setting up for the feast that’d be celebrated long into the night. 

Sighing, he turned to the teen and looked at the spot on his chest where he knew the cross was hidden under the leather and fabric. “Your faith is your own, Sihtric. I will not force you to accept any god.” 

Sihtric let out a breath and looked down, lost. “But I am a Dane-” 

“And you _always_ will be. Whether you grab for Thor’s Hammer or your mother’s cross before battle will never change that. Who you pray to and seek guidance from will not change how you look or your blood. You will _forever_ be a Dane, Sihtric. But whether you are Christian or pagan is up to you.” The torn look on the boy’s face told him that no matter long he discussed the topic, there would be no decision made that night. For it wasn’t a decision that was made lightly; one’s faith was more treasured then all of the silver in the world. And while the teen existed in the stormy place between the two religions, Uhtred wouldn’t force him to take a definitive step in either direction. But he’d be with him no matter the route. 

Sihtric was young. The youngest in his inner circle and still trying to navigate the difficulties of life. Any good advice Uhtred could give the teen was strictly out of preserving the integrity of his own man. It served him in the end. Or that’s what he told himself when he placed a gentle hand on the boy’s shoulder and paternal warmth filled his voice. “Sihtric… Finan does not lay with you or choose to be with you because of the gifts you can give him. It is because you are _you_. It does not matter how much silver you have or don’t have. That is not the type of man Finan is. And you of everyone should know this.” 

The young Dane nodded once. “I know, lord. And… I am sorry, lord. I didn’t think with Alfred when I-” 

Uhtred shushed him with a shake of his head and wave of his hand. “I trust your apology. Now, there’s a whole barrel of wine waiting for us. We will play a drinking game later to decide if you are still forbidden from leaving Coccham on your own.” 

Letting the smiling man lead him back into the great hall, Sihtric groaned. Not only would he be sporting a horrible hangover come the next day, but he wouldn’t be leaving Coccham unattended. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARM AND FUZZIES 
> 
> Epilogue will be rolling out soon!


	10. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaa the epilogue! First, I'm so sorry for the delay on this. Life got a wee bit hectic with wedding anniversary and work! But badda bing, badda boom, here's the last chapter. This has been such a fun story to write and I'm a little sad that it's finished. BUT I've already started on a kinda sorta sequel. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for the support, kind words, and kudos. Seriously, you guys rock and made this journey extremely rewarding. Thank you so much!

The snow created a thick sea over Coccham, so deep that it pushed back against Sihtric’s boots that crunched its frothy surface. The sun had expired for the day, allowing the divine hours of twilight to flourish. A kaleidoscope of pale purples and faint pinks reflected off the porcelain snow in the small opportunity it was given in the day. For those who were able to relish its beauty, it was the most evidence needed that someone divine held the paintbrush for the world. No man had the power or facility to create such splendor and beauty. 

Sihtric stood nervously outside Coccham’s church for a while. By the time he gathered the strength to place his hand on the door, twilight had shifted to nightfall. Inside, he heard Father Beocca’s loud voice. 

Excusing himself from Uhtred’s longhouse had been easier than expected. The Christians of the village had all filed into the small church, leaving the handful of Danes to enjoy the start of the feast on their own. But when the teen sheepishly told Uhtred he was needed elsewhere and would return later, he wasn’t prepared for the knowing smile from the older man. Or the warming hug from Gisela. 

He’d changed the order of his necklaces, shoving Thor’s Hammer under the concealing folds of his tunic and shirt and freed his mother’s cross to rest on his chest. It was lighter than the hammer and the pristinely polished surface felt undeserving on his black leather vest. It was tempting to run from the church and his curiosity given the fear coursing through him, but doing so felt wrong. He was where he needed to be that night. 

With a slight nudge forward, he opened the church door with a groaning croak. 

The church was small with its rickety pews and lopsided, riverstone altar. The candles burned low and carried a wretched stench that was just barely covered up by the burning sage. Compared to the grandeur and excellence of Wintanceaster’s chapels, it was a pathetic shack. And it hardly fit all of Coccham’s Christians that packed into it. Some were forced to stand against the walls while others crammed into the pews. And all were now staring at him in the doorway. 

Father Beocca, standing behind the altar with Hild and Osferth at his sides, stopped speaking and also stared at him. 

For a horrible moment, Sihtric thought it all a mistake. He should’ve cleaned the charcoal lining his eyes, should’ve taken off the black leather vest that was decidingly very Danish, should’ve unbraided his hair and allowed it to lay naturally. All they saw was a Dane interrupting their most sacred liturgy, and they would curse and chase him from the chapel in a zealotus fashion to protect their faith. He didn’t belong and they knew it. 

But he didn’t leave. And they didn’t move. 

With shaky fingers, he dunked a few into the copper basin at the doorway. The water felt near freezing as he dipped his chin downwards in the same way he’d seen Finan do and crossed himself. Silently, he prayed to whatever god would listen to give him strength. 

The first to move came from the most unlikely of people. It was a farmer that stood up from his spot at the end of a densely packed pew. A farmer whose name Sihtric didn’t even know, and he doubted the farmer knew him. And with the heavy wooden cross resting on his dusty linen tunic, the Dane tensed as he prepared to be cursed at for his pagan and sacrilege way of life that smeared them on their holiest of days. Their eyes met for a few seconds, the farmer’s stormy grey ones catching onto Sihtric’s dark pools, as the teen felt himself tense. 

And yet words never came. The farmer inched to the very end of the pew, uncomfortably so, and gave a quick hand gesture to the rest of his fellow Christians in the pew to move down. 

To make room. 

The room breathed again as a spot was quickly made for the Dane. And as Sihtric numbly walked up the aisle, he glanced briefly up to find Beocca fighting to hold a warm smile at bay, though the pinch in his cheeks and the crinkle in his eyes told the teen everything. Hild and Osferth beamed down at him. But the one with the widest, happiest smile was Finan. The Irishman sat one pew behind him, wedged between the blacksmith and brewer, and held his eye as the teen stiffly took the spot created for him. 

The tension was gone and a collective warmth filled its vacancy. Though the candles were low and cheap, and though the eucharist was bitter and stale, and though there was no choir like the amazing harmonics sung in Wintanceaster that night, Coccham’s church was richer and more fulfilling than ever before. Beocca resumed the Latin words that were, unfortunately, foreign to Sihtric. But the strength wasn’t lost on him. 

A hand reaching near his chest made him nearly jerk in startlement, but he stopped himself. Looking down, he watched the hand quickly right his cross that had managed to twist in his movements. His gaze followed the hand to the sleeved arm to its owner: an elderly woman who prided herself as a master weaver. She smiled briefly at him and, feeling that she had his attention, slowly placed her hands together with fingers entwined and nodded for him to do the same. 

It was strange and foreign, but also not. He returned the smile and looked forward, his fingers finding one another. And he was no longer in Coccham or Wessex. He was back in Northumbria, in Dunholm, in the dark storeroom that felt like a palace for him and his mother where he watched her kneel at their pallets with her head bowed. A few times he crawled beside her and replicated her motions, but there was no heart in it. Not the kind of heart that she had as she prayed to her god and her cheeks became wet. 

She didn’t have a church filled with Christians around her like he did, but her fingers never loosened and her faith never faltered. She was strong in the face of everything that forced her not to be. And had the walls around her fallen away and she be placed on the pew in his place, she would’ve looked as perfect as Coccham’s villagers around Sihtric. 

Christianity still felt hollow and unknown to him compared to his pagan gods, but he was willing to listen to it and learn. And that night, as he sat among his mother’s people, that was all he heard. 

And outside the church, across the central heart of Coccham, Uhtred leaned a shoulder against the doorway to his longhouse. His stare was fastened on the holy house - not a church - that burned with a life of its own. He had so many visions for his estate and village, a place where people could live without fear of persecution or war. A place of serenity and peace. He wanted to raise his family without the harshness of Wessex’s capital, where any would be free to believe what they wanted and focus on simply _living_ their lives. 

He wanted a happy integration, which just happened to be ironically similar to Alfred’s vision. Not that he’d admit that outloud to anyone. The less he shared with the king the better. But in his heart, he felt fulfilled. For Coccham was everything he hoped it would be. Happiness had come to them in most unlikely of ways, and for the most unexpected of people: the prince and the slave. 

_**fini** _

**Author's Note:**

> I survive on coffee, kudos, and feedback! Thanks for reading!!


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